LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Shelf .A;i<2S b 

( b ! ; 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



SONGS 

FROM THE 

WOODS OF MAINE 



JULIA H. MAY 



\ NOV 3 !894 



t 



^BtST■-^ 



( 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW YORK LONDON 

27 WKST -1 WENTV-THIRD STKEET 24 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND 

(ivbc ,|inulurbotl;cv ^vcss 
1894 



-K 






Coi'YKIGHT, l8g4 

JULIA H. MAY 



Electrotyped, Printed and Bound by 

"Cbc TRnicfecrbocftcr Ipress, IRew ^ovh 

G. P. Putnam's Sons 



To My Sister 
SARA RICE MAY 



My o\\'n ! though vanished from my eyes, 
I lift these woodland songs to you, 
Just as of old I used to do. 

To " look them over " in the skies. 



And though it be, alas ! too late 
To hear your answer, every line 
That seems, indeed, half yours, half mine. 

To you I dare to dedicate. 



CONTENTS. 



If We could Know . ' 

The Common Song . 
My Best .... 
The Happy Hills of Strong 
O ! Wanderers of Maine 
The Old Red Schoolhouse 
A Leaf for Whittier's Gra\ 

Both 

Transformation 

Some Day .... 

The Winds of Memory . 

Changed .... 

Her Memory 

The Sandy River . 

When Buds begin to Blow 

Dreaming .... 

Our Home .... 

Which One? 

Beyond the Pines 

x\ue They Glad ? 

Back Again 

If We Might 

Immortality 

Mysteries .... 



PAGE 

3 
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14 

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20 



24 
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25 

27 
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30 
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34 
35 



Contents. 



Joys to Come 

Gone . 

A Summer Song . 

When April Showkrs Come I) 

Discipline . 

Home Again 

Belief . 

Beat Quick, My Heart . 

The Passing of Tennyson 

When Leaves are Lying Low 

Thy Will be Done 

In Tart 

My Portion 

Her Birthday . 

October 

A Winter Lullaby 

Homeward . 

Free . 

Oh, for the Hills Again 

Going Abroad 

Sure . 

The Autumn Miracle 

An Oriental Wish 

A Winter Fancy 

If I Knew Where 

Wait . 

Lowland Music 

Outside 

Divided 

A Broken Dream 

Mary Lyon 

Thought's Tryst 

At Work . 

At Rest 

Lost — My Boy . 

Transplanted 



PAGE 

37 
38 
40 
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43 
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64 

64 
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68 
69 
70 

71 

72 

73 
74 
76 

77 
78 
80 



Contents. 



Vll 



Loving Echoes .... 

A Star can Bk as Perfect as a Sun 

The Happy Choick . 

Says I and Says He 

A Wedding Soxci 

Mother's Girl .... 

When Merry Sleigh Bklls Rinc 

Winter Violeis 

Living Still .... 

That Blessed Spring 

Oh, SuMiMER Sky ! . . . 

Life ...... 

A Rondeau — The Child and the Rivulet 



8i 

83 
84 
86 
89 
90 
91 
93 
94 
94 
95 
96 

97 



SONNETS. 



Trust . 

Possession . 

Sing and Look Up 

Recognition 

The Old Petition 

Success 

Opportunity 

The Old Clock 

The Awaking 

A New-Year's Sonnet 

Out-Door Music 

Through Trust 

From Page to Page 

Lifted 

To J. E. S . 

Uncertainty 

Seaward 

Aurora 

Unsatisfied 



lOI 

102 
102 
103 
104 
104 

105 
106 
106 
107 
108 
108 
lOg 
no 
no 
III 
112 
112 
113 



Vlll 



Contents. 
PERSONAL POEMS. 



FOR MY FRIENDS. 











PAGE 


Grandmother's Flower . . . . . • ir? 


Fourteen Happy Years . 








119 


My New-Year's Wish 








121 


His Birthday .... 








122 


"God Knows Why" . 








124 


Four Years Ago 








125 


" Be Brave" .... 








126 


One Year Ago .... 








127 


You would Not Wish Her Back 








129 


Hanging the Pictures . 


K 






130 


Till Death do Part 








131 


Fulfilment 








132 


Memory's Class 








133 


Oh, No ! Not Old 








137 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



MISCELLANEOUS 



IF WE COULD KNOW. 

T F we could know 

Which of us, darling, would be first to go, 
Which would be first to breast the swelling tide, 
And step alone upon the other side. 



If it were you. 

Should I walk softly, keeping death in view 
Should I my love to you more oft express, 
Or should I grieve you, darling, any less — 
If it were you ? 



If it were I, 

Should I improve the moments slipping by ? 

Should I more closely follow God's great plan, 

Be filled with sweeter charity to man — 

If it were I ? 



4 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

If we could know ; 

We cannot, darling ; and, 't is better so. 

I should forget, just as I do to-day, 

And walk along the same old stumbling way — 

If I could know. 

I would not know 

Which of us, darling, will be first to go. 

I only wish the space may not be long 

Between the parting and the greeting song ; 

But when, or where, or how we 're called to go, 

I would not know. 



I 



THE COMMON SONG. 

F it is never mine 

To be a brilliant star ; 
Shall I, for shame, refuse to shine. 
Nor send one beam afar ? 
The smallest star its perfect work hath done 
If it hath twinkled — 

Let me then be one. 

If it is never mine 

To be a mighty river, 
A rushing Rhone, a castled Rhine, 
Shall I lie still forever ? 
A little brook beside a rose can run. 
And make it blossom — 

Let me then be one. 



My Best. 

If it is never mine 

To sing a lofty song, 
Shall I blot every lowly line 
And tuneless move along ? 
The common song the common folk hath won 
And soothed their sorrows — 

Let me then sing one. 



I 



MY BEST. 

MAY perform no deed of great renown, 
No glorious act to millions manifest, 
Yet, in my little labors up and down, 
I do my best. 

I may not paint a perfect masterpiece. 

Nor carve a statue by the world confest 
A miracle of art ; yet, will not cease 
To do my best. 

My name is not upon the rolls of fame, 

'T is on the page of common life imprest ; 
But I keep marking, marking just the same. 
And do my best. 

Sometimes I sing a very simple song, 

And send it outward, to the east or west ; 
Although in silentness it rolls along, 
I do my best. 



Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Sometimes I write a very little hymn, 

The joy within me cannot be represt ; 
Though no one reads, the letters are so dim, 
I do my best. 

And if I see some fellow-traveller rise 

Far, far above me, still, with quiet breast, 
I keep on climbing, climbing toward the skies. 
And do my best. 

My very best, and if, at close of day, 

Worn out, I sit me down awhile to rest, 
I still will mend my garments, if I may. 
And do my best. 

It may not be the beautiful or grand. 
But I must try to be so careful, lest 
I fail to do what 's put into my hand, 
My very best. 

Better and better every stitch must be. 

The last a little stronger than the rest, 
Good Master, help mine eyes, that they may see 
To do my best. 



THE HAPPY HILLS OF STRONG. 

r^ ! HILLS of Strong ! my native hills ! 
^^ Wherever I may be, 
The thought of you forever fills 
The depths of memory. 



The Happy Hills of Strong. 7 

I long to stand upon your slope 

When right seems merged in wrong, 

And bury doubt and lift up hope 
Above the Hills of Strong ! 

I wander far, I cross the sea, 

I visit foreign lands ; 
Above the shrines of Italy 

I lift my wondering hands ; 
I mount the Alps ; I pass the Rhine ; 

But ever look along 
The far horizon's western line 

That hides the Hills of Strong ! 

I climb the summits of the East, 

Vesuvius I scale ; 
On ruins of the past I feast 

In Andalusia's vale ; 
I cross the lakes of Switzerland, 

I hear the Highland song ; 
But still come blowing o'er the strand 

Your breezes. Hills of Strong ! 

I roam across the continent. 

And climb the peaks between 
The east and west ; my eyes are bent 

To look for hills unseen. 
The heights are grand, the depths are vast ; 

But there is something wrong ; 
And so to you I turn at last. 

My happy Hills of Strong ! 



Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

I seem to hear " The Sandy " wind 

Among the rocks ; I see 
A home ; inside its doors, I find 

Remembered melody. 
I walk the bridge that spans the stream, 

Where swaying mem'ries throng. 
Until I waken from a dream, 

Upon the Hills of Strong ! 

My happy hills ! your rocks have felt 

The presence of her feet, 
Who once beside my fireside knelt, 

And whispered, " Love is sweet." 
I call her name ; the rocks reply. 

The woods the sound prolong ; 
I almost hear her passing by, 

Upon the Hills of Strong ! 

Oh ! when I cross the bridge of death. 

And meet the feet that wait 
To walk with mine, may my last breath 

(Lord, let it not be late !) 
Be drawn within my native vale. 

And may I look along 
Your tops, until my sight shall fail, 

My dear old Hills of Strong ! 



O ! Wanderers of Maine ! 



O ! WANDERERS OF MAINE ! 

f~\ ! Wanderers from the land of Maine ! the 

^^ perfume of the pine 

Is mingled with your memory — Her violet vales 
entwine 

Memorial wreaths — She calls for you — O ! must 
she call in vain ? 

Come back, your mother longs for you, O ! Wan- 
derers of Maine ! 

From mountain heights your feet have climbed, 

from Abraham and Blue, 
She looks across the continent and strains her eyes 

for you. 
Above the prairies of the West, she calls and calls 

again : 
" Come back, my children ! Come to me, O ! 

Wanderers of Maine ! 

" My hills are high, but from their tops the sky-fed 

waters run. 
My snows are deep and soft and white, and warm 

my summer sun. 
My springs are like the crystal clear, my clouds are 

full of rain. 
Come back from yonder sun-burnt sands, O ! 

Wanderers of Maine ! " 



lO Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Come back ! The peaks will welcome you ; the 
valleys laugh with joy, 

The snow-flakes leap to touch your hands as when 
you were a boy, 

The cow-bells' music, faint and sweet, is tinkling 
down the lane, 

To meet your footsteps coming back, O ! Wan- 
derer of Maine ! 

Come back ! There 's room enough ! O ! hear the 
voice of Kennebec ! 

The ocean calls. She looks for you on every 
home-bound deck. 

The Androscoggin murmurs, " Come." Aroos- 
took's fertile plain 

Is beckoning her Wanderers to the motherland of 
Maine. 

Come back ! Come back ! Though ye might stay 

but for a little while. 
And give your mother yet once more the gladness 

of your smile ; 
For she will clasp you in her arms and beg you to 

remain 
Beneath the perfume of the pines, O ! Wanderer of 

Maine ! 

" Come back ! " she cries. Alas ! to-night, along 

the west-winds' swell 
A bell's deep tone is echoing — " O! mother Maine, 

farewell ! " 



The Old Red Schoolhouse. 1 1 

The weary wanderer lieth low. He cannot come 

again 
To rest among the apple-blooms beneath the skies 

of Maine. 

The west winds whisper many a name to home- 
folks strangely sweet, 

" O ! Casco-cradled Longfellow ! " the surf -bound 
billows beat. 

"O! doers of heroic deeds! O! land-lamented 
Blaine ! 

O ! humbler souls of holy life, lost Wanderers of 
Maine ! " 



Dear Wanderers, who wander yet ! if we no more 

may meet 
Until the Land of the Beyond shall press your 

v/eary feet ; 
We still will lift our banner high, and sing the old 

refrain. 
For ye are ours for evermore ! O ! Wanderers of 

Maine ! 



THE OLD RED SCHOOLHOUSE. 

T REMEMBER the old red schoolhouse, 

On the other side of the stream ; 
Where we went to school together. Will, 
When life was like a dream. 



12 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Where we played " high spy " or " touch the 
gool " 

With Ben and James and Lou ; 
And jumped the rope of joy and hope, 

Do you remember too ? 

I went to the dear old schoolhouse, 

Only the other day. 
And I sat on the slope, where we jumped the 
rope, 

But I did not care to stay. 
The blinds were closed ; the glass was gone ; 

And, would you believe it, Will ! 
They were turning round, where our wits were 
ground, 

The wheels of a cider mill. 

I sat on the slope, where we jumped the rope. 

But I did not want to stay. 
My thoughts went back on a well worn track, 

And I went to school that day. 
Old Grimes was there. His bushy hair 

Stood up, and his piercing eyes 
Gazed down on me from the used to be, 

With a sort of dazed surprise. 

Then I seemed to stand with an eager band, 

For a while, in the spelling class. 
They were choosing me ; I was proud, may be, 

To be doing so well, but alas ! 



The Old Red Schoolhouse. 1 3 

I had finished " boquet " and " phthisic " and " dey " 

And " business " and '' anodyne," 
When I failed, and Will (he is doing it still) 

Took the place that was higher than mine. 

Then I seemed to be walking the sloping aisle 

Till I sat on the low front seat. 
With Addie and Nancy and Susan and Em, 

To feel for a little heat. 
We were '* reading in concert" now soft and low. 

Now soaring at highest pitch, 
" Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on ! " 

At the wave of the master's switch. 

Ah ! we have been " charging on," Will ! 

Since then, in the battle of life ; 
And some have gone down, where the grasses brown 

Have hidden the field of strife. 
And only a few of the band are left, 

Addie and Nancy and Phil, 
And you and I, to talk of our youth, 

And the schoolhouse under the hill. 

You have your treasures in earth and heaven. 

And mine, they are all on high. 
But we both have a beautiful work to do 

For the feet that are passing by. 
For the steps that tire ; then higher, higher. 

Let us climb, old schoolmate, till 
We reach the top, and our burdens drop. 

On the other side of the hill. 



14 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 



A LEAF FOR WHITTIER'S GRAVE. 

/^NE leaf upon thy grave I 'd throw, 
^~^ My poet sweet and true, — 
One leaflet that unseen may go 
To fade beneath the dew. 



O singer, sweet, and true, and grand ! 

In heaven, dost thou care 
That aching hearts, through all the land, 

Send up the silent prayer 

Which thou hast taught them ? Dost thou know 

How hands that never grasped 
Thine own with sympathetic glow, 

Together have been clasped. 

Because of thine ? If thou dost know 

How lips have longed to speak 
Their gratitude ; what blessings flow 

From tongues that vainly seek 

To tell thy greatness, then, O ! let 

This thought thy glory be : 
That souls have climbed from Olivet 

To heaven, upheld by thee. 



Both. 1 5 



BOTH. 

"DOTH of us, dear, 

^ Yes, both 

The last soft rustling of these elms shall hear, 

And then shall go 

To sit beneath the Tree of Life ; and so 

Why should we fret 

That one, the leaves of healing first, will get ? 

Both of us, dear, 

Yes, both 

Shall, for the last time, see the ripples clear 

Of yonder brook. 

And then, upon the living waters look ; 

Why should it seem 

So hard to wait an hour beside the stream ? 

Both of us, dear, 

Yes, both 

The pearly gates shall some glad hour draw near, 

And enter in, 

Freed from this load of suffering and sin ; 

How blest we are. 

If one, going first, can hold the gates ajar ! 

Both of us, dear. 

Yes, both 

Shall see the last faint twilight disappear, 



1 6 Songs from, the Woods of Maine. 

Or moon, or star, 

From this low window where our clasped hands 

are ; 
Why feel dismay, 
If I, for you, should seek the upward way ? 

Both of us, dear, 

Yes, both 

Shall learn the final lesson of a year, 

And then shall rise 

To the Great Master teaching in the skies ; 

Is it not meet 

That one go first to find the other's seat ? 

Both of us, darling ! 

Both ; 

Then why so loth 

That a few years apart our steps should be ? 

Years are but minutes to eternity. 



TRANSFORMATION. 

/^UT of the sky of the Long Ago 
^-^^ There falls on my heart to-day, 
A snatch of song I used to know. 

An olden roundelay, 
And the mystery of joy and grief 

Its hidden meaning knows. 
The crimson flush of the autumn leaf 

Is the blush of the summer rose. 



Transformation. ly 

The robins are singing above my head, 

And the buttercups shine at my side ; 
The east is so blue, and the west is so red. 

And the summer world is so wide. 
And I say to myself : " O, the June is so brief ! " 

But I hear, as the river flows : 
" The crimson flush of the autumn leaf 

Is the thought of the summer rose." 

The mountains are blue and clear to-day, 

And to-morrow, perchance, will be ; 
But the apple-blossoms have dropped away, 

And the coming fruit I see. 
And over it all the sunlight glows, 

And the seed foretells the sheaf. 
As the tender blush of the summer rose 

Is the flush of the autumn leaf. 

The elm-trees bend to the evening breeze, 

And the clover scents the air ; 
And the brook ripples on behind the trees. 

And the valleys are green and fair ; 
And I hold to my heart the sweet belief, 

If the east wind rudely blows. 
That the crimson flush of the autumn leaf 

Is the blush of the summer rose. 

The children are glad, as their tripping feet 
Come home from the noon-tide play. 

And the mothers kiss them with smiles as sweet 
And with voices as rnerry as they. 



1 8 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

But into the little heart a grief, 

As into the old heart grows, 
And the crimson flush of the autumn leaf 

Is the blush of the summer rose. 

The clouds are as red in the evening sky, 

As the clouds of the eastern morn. 
And the rose-bud on that bush close by. 

Like the full-blown rose, has a thorn. 
And for ever and aye to the rivers rush, 

This melody comes and goes. 
Of the autumn leaf, the crimson flush, 

Is the blush of the summer rose. 

The myrtle bloom, in the graveyard lot, 

Is as blue as the garden flower. 
And the sorrow of each neglected spot 

Remembers its joyful hour. 
And the prayer of earth is the praise of heaven, 

And time will its meaning disclose, 
As the crimson flush of the autumn leaf 

Is the blush of the summer rose. 



SOME DAY. 

COME day, 

*^ The last June roses I shall pick, and stay 

To see the mountain shadows and the blue 

Of the soft summer sky, my last with you. 

Will any change in leaf, or hill, or sky 

Tell us an angel draweth nigh ? 



Some Day. 19 

Some day, 

I shall my head upon my pillow lay, 

Never to lift it up until I rise, 

Within my mansion ready in the skies ; 

Will your soft touch, or tear, or silent prayer. 

Be with me there ? 

Some day, 

I shall go through a pearly gate, and stray 

Along the margin of a crystal sea. 

For the first time, and learn its mystery ; 

Whose clasping hand for mine will throbbing wait ? 

And who will lead me through the swinging gate ? 

Some day, 

Perchance, I may unto the angels say, 

What are they doing ? Who are shedding tears 

Because I 've spilled my little cup of years ? 

Or who are happy as they used to be. 

Forgetting me ? 

Some day, 

I think I shall not backward look^ for they 
Who are redeemed are glad, and even there. 
For your dear love I know that I shall care. 
And if I could, in Heaven, your sorrow see. 
Would it be Heaven to me ? 

Some day. 

When, where, how long, oh, who would wish to 
say ! 



20 So7tgs from the Woods of Maine. 

For the last time, our eyes shall fill with tears ; 
We shall begin the bliss of endless years, 
That day. 



THE WINDS OF MEMORY. 

T T PON the western shore, to-night, I 'm sitting, — 
The shore that slopes to touch a boundless 
sea, — 
And watch the white ships, inward, outward, flit- 
ting, 
And wonder when my ship will come for me ; 
And where it lies, and whither it is going, — 
I only hear the winds of memory blowing. 

Across the cliffs of yesterday they 're coming. 
They fan my forehead with the forest air ; 

Remembered melodies the hills are humming, 
A scent of pine-trees hovers everywhere ; 

I hear again the bank-side brooklet flowing. 

While all the winds of memory are blowing. 

Blow on, sweet winds, your singing or your sighing 
Brings back to-night a half-forgotten tune. 

Beneath the apple-blooms once more I 'm lying ; 
I feel the breath of girlhood's happy June ; 

Life's early dawn, again I see it glowing. 

While all the winds of memory are blowing. 



Changed. 2 1 

A summer song, now faint, now fuller growing ; 

A far-off lullaby from mother lips ; 
Love, living love, receiving and bestowing, 

I listen, listen, oh ! ye white-winged ships ; 
I do not heed your coming or your going, 
While all the winds of memory are blowing. 

Upon the western shore, to-night, I 'm sitting, — 
The shore that slopes to touch a boundless sea, — 

And watch the billows upward, downward, flitting, 
But do not care how near the tide may be, 

Or, if its waters touch my feet, not knowing, 

While I can hear the winds of memory blowing. 



CHANGED. 

■p\ EAR faded eyes ! 

■^^^ Ye were so full of tears for others' sighs ; 

So full of smiles. 

To cheer the pathway of the weary miles ; 

So full of care, 

When there was need or danger anywhere ; 

Ye could not idly brook 

One loveless look. 

Dear pallid lips ! 

From out your paleness, now, no blessing slips ; 

Once ye were red, 

As yonder rose in yonder garden bed ; 



22 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Once ye would open 

Only to let the gentle word be spoken ; 

How could we let you miss 

One answering kiss ? 

Dear helpless feet ! 

Once ye were strong and firm and sure and fleet ; 

Ready to run 

On any errand for sweet mercy done ; 

Ready to bear 

The heavy end of every load of care ; 

How could we, 

Your failing footstep e'er unnoticed, see ? 

Dear withered hands ! 

Ye were so eager to do love's commands ; 

So skilled to hold 

The cup of blessing ; tenderly enfold, 

In your embrace, 

The weary form, or cool the burning face ; 

How could we grasp 

Some other hand, forgetful of your clasp ? 

Eyes ! look not so ; 

Give me one glimpse of reason, ere you- go. 

Open, white lips ! 

And give one tender word in Death's eclipse. 

Before those feet 

Shall walk unfailingly the golden street, 

Oh, let us see 

Those eyes and lips just as they used to be ! 



Her Memory. 23 



HER MEMORY. 

T CANNOT hear my mother's voice, 

I cannot see her face ; 
She nevermore will speak to me 

Within the dear old place. 
The trees she loved, the cottage door. 
Will feel her presence, nevermore. 

Old Elms ! Look down upon me now ; 

Your boughs to-night are bare. 
But summer time will give each one 

A foliage fresh and rare. 
Yet she who loved your leaves to see. 
Will watch no more the old elm tree. 

Dear Stream, beyond the woodland bank ! 

Your waters onward flow ; 
But nevermore her feet will haste 

Along your paths to go. 
And nevermore she '11 walk with me. 
And listen to your melody. 

But, dear old Home ! we '11 not forget 

The smiling of her face, 
The heart shall listen for her step 

In each remembered place. 
And these still empty rooms shall be 
Filled up with her sweet memory. 



24 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 



THE SANDY RIVER. 

A DROP from the summer rain-cloud, 
And a drop from the summer dew, 
Kissing, and running together 
Far up the mountain blue. 

A tiny spring on the hillside, 
Stealing down to a tiny lake, 

And crooning the quiet murmur 
That baby brooklets make. 

A thread of silver water 

Strung round the rocky hill, 
Twisting in with another, 

And curving onward still. 

A whisper of meadow lilies, , 

A breath from the garden rose. 

And down the smiling valley 
The Sandy river goes. 



WHEN BUDS BEGIN TO BLOW. 

TX /"HEN buds begin to blow 
^ Where last year's leaflets lie, 

When fields grow green, when violets show 
The color of the sky, 

When fragrance fills the air. 
When twinkling stars can see 



Dreaming. 25 

Shine up along the meadows bare 

The star-anemone : 
O ! then the happy heart can sing 

To sleep its winter sorrowing ; 
And joys spring up, and hopes mount high, 

When buds begin to blow. 

When buds begin to blow 

And into blossoms spread. 
My drooping hope learns how to grow, 

By these interpreted ; 
Faith takes me by the hand 

That holds an opening flower, 
And whispers, you will understand, 

In some swift coming hour. 
How joy puts on a brighter bloom. 

That springs from sorrow, how the tomb 
May be like yonder garden bed 

Where buds begin to blow. 



DREAMING. 

T KNOW a quiet place 

Beside a singing brook, 
A study, hung with leafy lace, 

Where I can read my book. 
And, as I turn its leaves, upon 

God's open volume look. 
Below my rustic seat 

The bank descends a space. 



26 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Where stones run down, the brook to meet, 

And pat the water's face ; 
While, through the trees, across the brook, 

God's mountains I can trace. 

Above my head, the pines 

Stretch to the bending sky ; 
And branch with clinging branch entwines 

Toward that blue vault, on high. 
Where God's own winged songsters make 

Fresh music as they fly. 

My happy song I sing ; 

The brook sings back to me ; 
The waving boughs keep echoing 

A music glad and free, 
While all the woodland air is brimmed 

With living melody. 

! merry singing stream ! 

! joyous swinging bough ! 
Are ye as happy as ye seem ? 

And can ye tell me how 

1 seem to sit within a dream 
And cannot waken now ? 

Still in my quiet place. 

Beside the running stream. 
Where past and present interlace, 

1 dream my little dream ; 
And sometimes think I am awake, 

And things are what they seem. 



Our Home. 27 



OUR HOME. 

T)ELOVED ! when we pass away 

From this famiHar spot, 
I wonder who will come and stay 

In the deserted cot ! 
Beneath these elm trees, who will stand. 

And think that home is sweet, 
When we have gone into that land 

Where parted households meet ? 

Oh ! who will walk beside the stream. 

Or sit beneath the pine. 
To dream again life's little dream. 

When 't is not yours nor mine ? 
Will some one fell my favorite tree ? 

Pull down the mossy wall ? 
The things so dear to you and me. 

Will they destroy them all ? 

Whose name will be on yonder door ? 

Whose pictures deck the walls ? 
Whose feet press roughly on the floor 

Where your dear footstep falls ? 
And when the years to centuries swing. 

Till all we love are dead. 
Will any echo backward bring 

The words that we have said ? 



28 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

I hope the brook, down there, will miss 

An old familiar tone, 
When, in a happier home than this, 

We talk with all our own ; 
For oh ! this little home is sweet, 

Each corner is so dear ! 
Can heaven without it be complete ? 

I would that heaven were here. 



WHICH ONE? 

/^NE of us, dear, 
^^ But one, 

Will sit by a bed with a nameless fear, 
And clasp a hand. 

Growing cold as it feels for the spirit land ; 
Darling, which one ? 

One of us, dear. 

But one, 
Will stand by the other's coffin bier, 
And look and weep. 
While those marble lips strange silence keep ; 

Darling, which one ? 

One of us, dear, 

But one, 
By an open grave will drop a tear. 
And homeward go. 
The anguish of an unshared grief to know ; 

Darling, which one ? 



Beyond the Pines. 29 

One of us, darling, it must be — 
It may be, you will slip from me ; 
My little life may first be done ; 
I 'm glad we do not know which one. 



BEYOND THE PINES. 

OEYOND the belt of pines 

That bounds my bit of ground, 
The sunset west this evening shines, 

And spreads its colors round. 
With rosy pink it gleams and gleams. 

Where gold with blue entwines ; 
A land of dreams 
The picture seems. 

That hangs beyond the pines. 

The boughs fling out their green 

Mementos of the spring, 
And, dark upon the shining sheen, 

To rocking winds they swing. 
The red horizon bends, and blends 

With wavy sun-tipped lines. 
Day upward sends 
Adieux, and lends 

New glory to the pines. 

A stretch of billowy snow 
This side the piney bank ; 

The tiny driftlets break and blow 
Where summer blossoms sank, 



30 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

And, from the boughs, the snow-flakes fall, 

Till sunset glow declines. 
And, like a wall 
Of shade, is all 

The picture of the pines. 



ARE THEY GLAD? 

T F she were here 

■^ To take my hand, and ask : " What is it, 

dear ? " 
She would not see the wrinkles on my face, 
Nor note the silver where the gold had place ; 
Upon my faded lip she 'd leave a kiss, 
And whisper " Darling " ; and she would not miss 
The vanished rose, or, if she did, would say : 
" How you have ripened since I went away ! " 
The blemishes that others might despise. 
Would still be beautiful, in mother's eyes. 

If she were here. 

She would not mind the changes ; if a tear 

Should fill my eye, I know that she would see, 

And give sweet consolation unto me. 

Yet, in her heart, some things would little heed, 

Knowing how much their discipline I need. 

And so, I think, though Heaven be not far. 

And friends can see us even as we are, 

They may be glad, like loving motherhood, 

Because they know how all things work for good. 



Back Again. 3 1 



BACK AGAIN. 

TO MY SISTER, ON HER RECOVERY FROM 
DANGEROUS ILLNESS. 

"DACK to my arms, my darling ! 
Back from the river's brink 
You have come ; oh, let me clasp you ! 

And know you did not sink ! 
Did you feel the chilly water, 

Did you see the angel's wings, 
Ere you turned from the icy river 

Backward to earthly things ? 

Back to my arms my darling ! 

Back from the river's brink 
You have come, and I am waking 

From a dream. Oh, let me think ! 
Did I take your hand this morning ? 

Did I press you to my heart ? 
Did I weep, and did they tell me 

That we, to-day must part ? 

Yes, but you 're back, my darling ! 

Back, for you could not go ; 
Could not leave me here so lonely, 

And longing for you so. 
For I sit, to-night, by your bedside, 

And I clasp your life-warm hand ; 
While I think new thoughts that need no words 

To make you understand. 



32 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Back to my arms, my darling ! 

Back to my beating side 
You have come, and just behind you 

I hear the rolling tide. 
But we '11 lift again life's burden, 

Clasping each other still. 
And we '11 cross some time to the other side, 

Together, if God will. 



IF WE MIGHT. 

T F we might, oh ! if we might 

Turn back the wheels of time, my friend, to- 
night ; 
If to the vale of childhood we could go. 
And climb again, from those warm depths below, 
To this steep hillside ; live, from day to day. 
The past, just as we lived it once, oh ! say. 
Would you be glad to tread the pathway o'er — 
The same old steps again, no less, no more ? 

If we might, yes, if we might 

Turn back the whirling wheels, my friend, to- 
night, 
And slowly wind, from youth to middle age. 
The tangled road ; if every blotted page 
We could omit, and let the good remain ; 
In life's brief book, skip all the grief and pain. 
Would you be willing, then, to live them o'er — 
The backward years that can return no more ? 



If We Might. 33 

" If I might, oh ! if I might, 

Perhaps I would, perhaps I should, to-night. 

I am not wise — old friendships were so true, 

Old loves so sweet and even if I knew 

I must have all the sorrow, all the pain, 

For love's dear sake I might go back again ; 

The thorny pathway, to my willing feet, 

Would not be hard — I think it would be sweet." 

But if the spring, ah ! if the spring 
Lead on to summer ; if the autumn bring 
The winter snow-flakes ; if the joyous chime 
Of wintry bells ring in the blossom time ; 
Why would you live again the same old year. 
Knowing another spring will soon be here ? 
The dead May violets rather should you kiss 
And say " Next year they will be sweet as this." 

And if the life, ah ! if the life 

We live on earth, so full of restless strife. 

So full of joyfulness, or blessed peace. 

Is beautiful, why should you wish to cease 

The onward journey ? Do not wish again 

To live life over, even without the pain, 

For oh, my friend ! when life's last sun is set, 

The bright next day is heaven, do not forget. 



34 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 



IMMORTALITY. 

T F it were true 

This life were all, and if to-day we knew, 
When looking in the marble face of death. 
That which we missed was nothing but a breath. 
And when we gently closed the glassy eye. 
The end of all things was but this — to die ! 

If it were true 

Death's river we should fearfully pass through. 

And then, beyond the dark, mysterious gate. 

Endless oblivion should forever wait ; 

If all the days of sorrow and distress 

Must terminate in utter nothingness. 

If it were true 

That all the sweet things we have learned to do. 

And all the friends it is our joy to see, 

Would be no more to you, no more to me. 

That " Dust to dust " would hear no glad " Arise, 

And heaven were nothing but the starry skies. 

If it were true 

I would not know it, dear, oh, say, would you ? 
Unto my heart the fancy I would fold. 
That yet another life this life would hold. 
And, on the tombstone of each sweet affection, 
I still would write, " There is a resurrection." 



Mysteries. 35 

It is not true — 

There is another life, for me, for you, 

I think, I feel, I know that it is so, 

A life more perfect than the one we know. 

Ah ! tell me not that we shall cease to be — 

I feel the pulse of immortality. 



MYSTERIES. 

"DETWEEN two mysteries I stand, 

The vast unfathomed skies, 
And that unpenetrated land 
Which underneath me lies. 

What is beyond that fadeless blue ? 

Beyond that trembling star ? 
Is there a spot no eye can view, 

Where space's limits are ? 

Is there a point where length must cease, 
And breadth extend no more, 

Where magnitude cannot increase. 
And height and depth are o'er ? 

Is there a place where length meets length 

In endless circling lines, 
Where gravitation's waning strength 

To nothingness declines ? 



36 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

My reason cannot grasp the thought ; 

Imagination tries, 
In vain, to solve the riddle taught 

In those mysterious skies. 

I look from sky to mother earth, 

Put to her lip my ear, 
And ask the secret of her birth. 

No answer do I hear. 

I ask the violet of its blue. 
The snow-flake of its white ; 

The violet only whispers, " Dew," 
The snow-flake murmurs, " Light." 

I ask the orchard of its leaf, 
The meadow of its wheat ; 

The apple and the ripened sheaf 
Look up, and answer, " Eat." 

I ask the rocks beneath my tread, 
Their shadow to explain ; 

I see far down their hidden bed. 
But unknown depths remain. 

The fire within, how does it burn ? 

I ask, and vainly try 
Unnumbered theories to learn, 

But none will satisfy. 



yoys to Come. 37 

Between two mysteries I stand, 

The vast unfathomed sky, 
And that unpenetrated land 

Where I so soon must lie. 

What is the soul ? what is the mind ? 

What is the life within ? 

I ask, but no solution find ; 

I end as I begin. 
***** 

From mystery, I turn to fact ; 

To known from the concealed. 
I dream no more, I only act, 

For duty is revealed. 



JOYS TO COME. 

A^rHEN disappointments rise, 

Or racking pain upon my pillow lies, 
I wipe my tears at every darting pain. 

And softly cry, 

As low I lie, 
I 'm glad this pang can never come again. 

When, in life's summer heaven, 

A cloud makes black the twilight of the even. 

Or breaks upon my soul the pelting rain, 

Still bowing low, 

I smile to know, 
I shall not have to face this storm again. 



38 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

But, when the storm is past, 
The soul's blue sky no longer overcast. 
When throbbing joy replaces bitter pain, 
Then do I cry. 
As hope mounts high. 
The joy that comes will surely come again ! 

For, joy, it seems to me. 

Is but a foretaste of what is to be ; 

And sorrow's heaviest state, 

Only the struggling of the joys that wait ; 

And thus, though many a bitter pang remain. 
At each I '11 cry. 
The end draws nigh. 

And this 07ie cannot hurt my heart again. 



GONE. 



C HE has gone — my life and my light ; 

Under the clover she lies. 
The sun is no more at morning bright, 
Nor the moon of the evening skies ; 
The days are long and drear. 
And the nights no sweetness bring ; 
The wearisome weeks are cold and dark, 
For the year has lost its spring — 
The year has lost its spring. 
And the summer forgot its June, 
And the harp of my heart. 



Gone. 39 

In its sweetest part, 
Is forever out of tune. 

Ah ! the sky has lost its blue, 

And the stars their twinkling ray ; 

And the garden has lost its fragrant breath, 

Since my rose was stolen away ; 

The sky has lost its blue. 

And the woods their nightingale, 

And my heart has lost a love so true, 

That the springs of its river fail ; 

Yes, the river has lost its spring. 

And the Summer forgot its June, 

And the harp of my heart. 

In its sweetest part. 

Is forever out of tune. 

The rainbow has left the sky ; 

The south winds do not blow ; 

A shadow is passing slowly by. 

Wherever my footsteps go. 

Sweet summer ! I loved you once, 

But the beauty of every thing. 

And the glory and sweetness have passed away, 

Since my year has lost its spring ; 

Yes, the year has lost its spring. 

And the summer forgot its June, 

And the harp of my heart. 

In every part, 

Is forever out of tune. 



40 Songs fro7n the Woods of Maine. 



A SUMMER SONG. 

*^l\/rOVE slow, sweet June ! Sweet June, move 

^^ slow, 

And let the apple-blossoms blow 
A little longer ; let the sky- 
Bend backward, as the hours pass by. 
My darling, look," she said, " and write 
A song with this refrain to-night. 
' Oh, stay, sweet June, thy flowery feet — 
Thou art so sweet ; thou art so sweet.' " 

" Move slow, sweet June, sweet June, move slow," 

I sang, and watched the lilies blow, 

And saw the dandelions shine 

Upon a hand held close in mine, 

" Oh, stay, until the robins sing 

Once more," our hearts kept whispering. 

" Stay, stay, sweet June, thy flowery feet — 

Thou art so sweet ; thou art so sweet." 

Sweet June, dear June, no longer stay ; 
Alone I sing, to-day, to-day ; 
Oh, linger not ! stop not to tell 
The tale I used to love so well, 
But hasten, June, for I would go 
Where flowers immortal bud and blow. 
Dear June, sweet June, no longer stay — 
Thou art so sad, so sad, to-day. 



When April Showers Come Down. 41 

And yet, dear June, dear June, and yet 
Thou still art sweet. Do I forget 
How many hearts are glad as mine 
In other Junes ? Oh, blot that line, 
That verse, my hand. Let lovers sing 
To-day ; let children's voices ring 
With joy ; for them delay thy feet, 
Sweet June — thou art so sweet, so sweet. 



WHEN APRIL SHOWERS COME DOWN. 

TXT" HEN April showers come down 

From blossom-loving skies. 
And, peeping through the grasses brown, 

Bid sleeping buds arise. 
Unto the woods, so sweet, so sweet. 

Beyond the stifled town, 
I turn my feet, 
Old friends to meet, 

When April showers come down. 

I lift the mossy stone. 

Arbutus leaves to touch, 
And whisper to them all alone, 

" I love you, O ! so much." 
And for a bud I look, I look 

Beneath their shining crown. 
In every nook. 
By fence or brook. 

When April showers come down. 



42 Songs from the Woods of A^aine. 

One pink anemone 

Is first my voice to heed ; 
She lifts her starry eyes to me, 

Their language I can read. 
And O ! the world is free, is free 

I care not for its frown ; 
Do raindrops see the change in me 

When April showers come down ? 

Unto the fields I go, 

I climb the brookside steep ; 
I sit where violets used to blow. 

And wish they would not sleep ; 
'Neath dripping boughs I stay, I stay. 

Still heedless of renown. 
" Come just this way 
Till merry May," 

I sing as showers come down. 

Unto my work, at last, 

I walk with lagging feet ; 
For raindrops do not fall so fast. 

Their touch will not be sweet. 
And at my task I sing, I sing. 

All moody cares to drown ; 
Sweet thoughts upspring 
To blossoming, 

When April showers come down. 



Discipline. 43 



DISCIPLINE. 

A WAYWARD scholar, to the school of pain, 
Long years ago, 
My Father sent me, saying : " Child ! remain 

Until you know 
The lesson that, in future, you will need 
For you are very ignorant indeed." 

At first, with many bitter tears and sighs, 

I conned my task. 
" What good from all these problems can arise ? " 

Presumed to ask. 
And blindly learned the lesson of the years, 
Through eyes that were so dim with homesick tears. 

Sometimes, unto my Father I would write 

And sadly say : 
" I cannot keep the rules ; oh ! if I might 

Go home to-day. 
Or to a better school — please let me go — 
Whose lessons will be easier to know ! " 

My Father pitied me, and often sent 

Sweet words of cheer. 
Or told me what the tangled questions meant. 

In terms so clear 
That, for a while, I liked the school of pain. 
And all its discipline seemed wise and plain. 



44 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

But then, sometimes, the teachers were so stern, 

Sometimes, so queer, 
I did not understand, I could not learn, 

I would not hear 
The tender words my Father said to me, 
When He came down his wayward child to see. 

Sometimes I tried the hardest things to do. 

An easier way 
Than that appointed, for I thought I knew 

Better than they, 
The teachers in this blessed school of pain ; 
I always had to do the task again. 

At length, I sat me down unto my work 

With earnest will. 
" I '11 do it as they wish, I will not shirk, 

I will be still," 
I said ; " and, though I do not understand, 
I will obey the very least command." 

And soon, the discipline no more seemed stern, 

The lines grew plain, 
I longed, each day, more precious truths to learn ; 

I felt no pain. 
For pain was pleasure, work was sweetest rest, 
Because my Father told me it was best. 

/ 
At last, I learned to love the school of pain ; 

That very day. 



Home Again. 45 

My Father came to see His child again ; 

We went away, 
The dear untroubled home life to begin, 
So much the better for the discipline. 



HOME AGAIN. 

ACK to my own dear hills I come 

From grander heights ; my lips were dumb 
On those far mountain tops, but now 
My heart speaks out ; my soul knows how 
To syllable its joy. Alone, 

1 walked through crowds, a speck unknown ; 
I am myself with thee, my own. 

Back to the friends of other years ; 
Back to the smiles, perchance the tears ; 
To humble walks, in valleys sweet. 
Familiar paths beneath my feet ; 
Back to the winds from pine-trees blown. 
To seed that 's waiting to be sown ; 
Back from the heights to thee, my own ! 



BELIEF. 

"DECAUSE I would, 

I climbed the sunny slopes of maidenhood. 
Youth's pathway was so fair, so fresh, so free ; 
So far, so high, life's hilltops looked to me, 
I thought not of the future — did not care 



46 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

To think about it — whether it were fair 

Beyond the summit ; every moment, glad 

To pick the buds around me ; for I had 

No doubts, no fears, believed that God was good, 

Believed in heaven and immortality, 

Because I would. 

Because I must, 

I lean to-day upon my staff of trust ; 

The hilltops are not far ; I soon shall see 

The other side burst forth. It cannot be 

That I have climbed so far, and all for nought. 

Ah, no ! Some glorious glimpses I have caught. 

And cannot help but take the downstretched hand, 

And cling to it as tottering I stand. 

Oh ! tell me not that I am empty dust ; 

My spirit is — Belief ! I hold to thee, 

Because I must. 



BEAT QUICK, MY HEART. 

T3EAT quick, my heart ! 

Still faster, faster, let the life depart ! 
The heart in unison with thee is still ; 
The pulse that felt thy palpitating thrill 
Can throb no longer ; eyes that once would weep 
If thou shouldst stop thy beating, are asleep. 
And from their folded lids no tears can start 
To soothe thy sorrows. Oh, beat quick, my heart ! 



Beat Quick My Heart. 47 

Hasten, my feet ! 

To walk the paths your future course must meet. 

The step I loved to hear will nevermore 

Walk side by side with mine through yonder door. 

I listen, listen farther, farther back 

The mocking echoes die along the track 

She trod. Fain would I walk the golden street, 

If she be there ; then haste, oh, haste, my feet ! 

Work swift, my hand ! 

The fingers that would clasp, and understand 

Thy slightest motion, move no more for thee ; 

Oh, swifter, swifter let thy working be ! 

For I would show the finished task to one 

Whose arm embraced me when it was begun. 

If she is resting in that happier land, 

I soon would rest there ; then work swift, my hand ! 

Speak low, my voice ! 
The ear that at thy accents would rejoice, 
And think thy tones were musical and sweet. 
Can hear no more, till, at the end, we meet ; 
Can hear no more, for, if she heard me now, 
I think she 'd find some way to tell me how 
My song is still the music of her choice. 
But, near or far, speak low, sing low, my voice ! 

Beat quick, my heart ! 

Still faster, faster let the life depart ! 

My lonely soul would gladly try its wings, 



48 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

And soar beyond these death-destroying things, 
To heaven. I know not how, I know not where, 
I only know the one I love is there. 
And strange new life into my frame shall start 
A life immortal ! Oh, beat quick, my heart ! 



THE PASSING OF TENNYSON. 

O UNRISE and morning star 
*^ Where evening shades had been, 
And waving hands, and greetings from afar. 
When he went in. 



Fresh leaves across the prow, 

And blossoms strangely fair, 
And soft-breathed whispers, " Heaven is here and 
now," 

Around him everywhere. 

A breeze that brings from shore 

Fragrance immortal, sweet ; 
Arms reaching shoreward, outward, more and more 

Till hands in clasping meet. 

Sunrise and crimson east 

As morning bells begin, 
And, through the dawning, one sweet smile at least. 

When he went in. 



When Leaves are Lying Low. 49 



WHEN LEAVES ARE LYING LOW. 

T^rHEN leaves are lying low 

Beneath October's tread, 
Across the empty fields I go, 

Whose hopes are harvested. 
Along a narrow, grass-grown way. 

Within a mossy gate. 
Where dead leaves love so well to stay, 

Their falling I await. 
" O ! dear decaying leaves," I cry, 
" What heavenly hopes beneath you lie ! " 

When leaves are lying low. 

And, crushed beneath my feet, 
They turn to earth, I ought to know 

The lesson, once so sweet. 
That autumn surely leads to spring. 

And leaflets rise from dust ; 
I see the vanished blossoming, 

And weep because I must. 
" These leaves are dead, are dead," I say, 
" And all my heart is dead to-day," 

" New leaves shall spring, new leaves shall spring, 

I hear it overhead ; 
It whispers in the boughs that fling 

Their dust above my dead. 



50 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

" New leaves shall spring," the winds repeat ; 

The brooklet sings it o'er : 
" From death to life," O, hope so sweet ! 

Stay with me evermore, 
Till doubt beneath the leaves shall lie, 
And new-born faith shall touch the sky. 



THY WILL BE DONE. 

" I^HY will be done. O ! can I say, 
"*■ My Father, this sweet prayer to-day ? 
When Thou dost lift the chastening rod. 
Do I receive it as from God ? 
When dangers threaten, do I dare 
Or long to follow anywhere 
That Thou dost lead ? When o'er my soul 
The waves of sorrow fiercely roll, 
Can I look up, through every one, 
And say : O ! Lord, Thy will be done ? 

Thy will be done. I want to say. 
My Father, this sweet prayer to-day. 
I want, but oh ! the heart will ache, 
And cannot help it. For Thy sake 
I '11 try ; but I was made to miss 
The hand in mine, the tender kiss ; 
When they are taken, how can I 
Keep back the murmur ? If I sigh. 
And let the tears unbidden run. 
Can I say then. Thy will be done ? 



In Part. 51 

Thy will be done. Lord ! help me say 
This prayer, my Saviour's prayer, to-day. 
Thou knowest best, Thou seest all, 
If I cannot — I bend — I fall — 
I throw my troubles at Thy feet ; 
Lord, turn this bitter into sweet, 
While I am tasting ; let me see 
The good Thou hast prepared for me ; 
Complete the work thou hast begun, 
That I may say. Thy will be done. 

Thy will be done. Yes, I can say 

This prayer, some time, if not to-day. 

For I am sure that Thou dost see 

The path that leads from earth to Thee, 

Though I see not. Reach down Thy hand 

Among the shadows where I stand. 

And lift me upward — if I must 

Be blindfold, show me how to trust. 
****** 

I catch one glimpse — oh ! blessed One, 

Thy will be done. Thy will be done. 



IN PART. 

CKY ! soft sky ! 

To thee I turn mine eye. 
And read, the stars between, 
One word of what thy glories mean. 
And then, though much I need. 
No more can read. 



52 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Wind, sweet wind ! 
Thy voice to-day is kind ! 
Thou whisperest in mine ear 
Words that I just begin to hear ; 
Thou goest from east to west, 
I lose the rest. 

Earth, glad earth ! 

To thee I owe my birth ; 

In thy warm lap I sit. 

Thy tender arms around me knit, 

I question — Thou dost say 

Now yea, now nay. 

Soul, my soul ! 

Thou canst not know the whole ; 

The sky can know its star ; 

The breeze its perfume from afar ; 

The earth reveal to thee 

One mystery ! 

But soul, my soul ! 
Thou soon shalt know the whole ; 
When earth and sea and sky 
Have vanished, shall thine eye 
Translate the book of fate ; 
Then wait, oh, wait ! 



My Portion. 53 



MY PORTION. 

r~\ YEAR that bade this budding spring 
^^ Set summer blossoms free ! 
Of all the bounties thou dost bring, 
What will my portion be ? 

When grass peeps up from yonder sod, 
And snows to perfumes turn, 

What thought will they reveal from God 
To make me heavenward yearn ? 

When daisies dot the dales with white, 

Or buttercups, with gold, 
What hope, to give my heart delight, 

Will blossoming unfold ? 

When corn grows yellow in the fields. 

And grain is ripe to reap. 
What blessings that the harvest yields. 

For me, will August keep ? 

When all the rainbow of the wood, 
With gold or crimson gleams, 

Shall I see visions grand and good, 
And tell the world my dreams ? 

When withered leaves are lying low. 
And snow-flakes fill the air, 

Shall I hear God in winds that blow, 
And know Him everywhere ? 



54 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

O year that bade the budding spring 
Make summer petals grow ! 

Teach me to find in everything 

The good thou wouldst bestow. 

Help me to touch the keys of truth, 
Till they shall answer me, 

Then will thy smallest gifts, forsooth, 
An ample portion be. 



HER BIRTHDAY. 

\7"0UR birthday, darling ! Do you know 

I think about it 1 That I go 
From room to room, as if to see 
If you have not come back to me ? 

Upon the walls around, I place 
In every room, the silent face 
So like your own ; but, oh ! I miss 
The warm, warm lips I used to kiss. 

A costly gift, one year ago, 
I planned to give you. Do you know 
I thought of it ? Why did I wait 
To give until it was too late ? 

Your birthday, dear — oh ! could I see 
How you are spending it ; could we. 
For just one moment's space, look through 
The veil which falls 'twixt me and you ; 



October. . 55 

If I could only push aside 
This veil, and see where you abide, 
Or help you, darling, celebrate 
Your first birthday beyond the gate. 

How gladly I the veil should lift, 
And bear you some sweet birthday gift ; 
How gladly I the tale should tell 
Of all the year. Perhaps 't is well 

I cannot do it, for my eye, 
One glimpse would poorly satisfy ; 
The curtain I should wish to tear, 
And be with you forever there. 



OCTOBER. 

f~\ crimson leaf ! Thy blush 
^-'^ Makes glad the watching sky. 
Till sunset clouds send back the flush 

In tints of roseate dye ; 
And every withered plant or bush 

Looks up with envious eye. 

O scarlet leaf ! Thy hue 
Flames over wood and hill ; 

Thou art the old within the new, 
The bud remembered still ; 

October fruits are made of dew 
That April petals spill. 



56 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Crimson or scarlet bough, 
Or leaf of burning gold, 

Once living green, but shining now 
In colors manifold. 

Your autumn glory tells me how- 
True hearts grow grandly old. 



A WINTER LULLABY. 

' I ^HE valley has gone to sleep. 

The birds in their nests are still, 
And the maple branches bend and weep 

Over the leafless hill, 
Till the pitying sky looks down 

And whispers to the snow : 
" Let us cover the hills so bare and brown 

Where the flowers used to grow." 
And she croons a lullaby 

Through the hush of the storm : 
" Sleep, sleep, in your cradle deep 

I will keep you warm ; 
O, sleep, sleep, sleep ! " 

The valley is going to wake, 

The birds in their nests will sing. 

And the maple buds begin to break 
Into the leaves of spring ; 

For the dreaming vale will hear 
Another lullaby. 



Homeward. 5 7 

The zephyrs will whisper it into her ear 

Out of the heart of the sky, 
Another cradle song 

Tuned to the harp of the stream : 
" Wake, wake 

For the robins' sake. 
And tell the sky your dream. 
O, wake, wake, wake ! " 



HOMEWARD. 

"\7'ES, I am coming, coming to you : 

What is the light I have seen 
Gilding my pathway, and guiding me through 

All the long desert between ? 
Darkness behind me, darkness around, 

Only the pathway is bright : 
Lightly my footsteps are touching the ground- 

I shall be with you to-night. 

Yes, I am coming, coming to you ; 

What is the music I hear — 
Filling the road I am clambering through, 

Growing each moment more clear ? 
Darkness behind me, darkness around, 

Yet I am filled with delight ; 
Through the dim distance is winding a sound,- 

I shall be with you to-night 



58 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Yes, I am coming, coming to you ; 

What is the touch that I feel 
Lifting me, drawing me ever anew, 

Even as the magnet the steel? 
Onward, right onward, I airily bound ; 

Something is holding me tight ; 
Helping me over the slippery ground, — 

I shall be with you to-night. 

Is it the flash from the blue of your eye. 

Lighting my pathway along ? 
Does the long road, as I gayly draw nigh. 

Echo the trill of your song ? 
Ah ! how the outstretching arms of your love 

Draw me with infinite might ! 
Bliss is around and before and above, — 

Sweet ! I am with you to-night. 



FREE. 



A S a poor prisoner, in his narrow cell, 

I spend my years, 
The reason I am here I cannot tell, 

But through my tears 
I watch the captives, that for evermore 
Go back and forth beside my prison door. 

My prison walls are very thick and deep. 
Its windows high ; 



Free. 59 

Sometimes, on tiptoe, through the grates I peep 

With wondering eye, 
And then upon the cold dark floor I fall, 
And cannot tell what I have seen at all. 

Sometimes I look above the iron bars, 

And dimly see 
The shining of the sweet unfettered stars. 

And think may be 
I too can learn what every freeman knows. 
And then — the shutters of my prison close. 

Sometimes there falls, through that unplastered 
chink. 

Upon the air. 
The perfume of a rose or garden pink, 

And lingers there. 
But, while I wonder whence the sweetness is. 
Along the low, damp ground it vanishes. 

Sometimes the distant note of summer bird 

I faintly hear ; 
With silent rapture all my soul is stirred, 

As it draws near. 
But, farther, farther back the music flows ; 
I know not whence it comes, nor where it goes. 

Sometimes a loving hand I seem to clasp, 
Compassionate, 



6o Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Of one who 's reaching for my tender grasp 

Outside the gate, 
And then — I wake ; he is beyond the stars, 
And I am pining still, behind the bars. 

How long I must within my prison stay, 

I do not know ; 
And when they tell me I shall leave, some day, 

I fear to go ; 
For I have lived so long inside the cell, 
I love its very darkness all too well. 

So much I fear, that if to-night I heard 

The keeper say: 
" You may go out," I should, with stammering 
word. 

Cry : " Let me stay ; 
I ask for just one day's delay before 
I shall be ready for the open door." 

But hark ! I hear a step along the track — 

Why am I dumb ? 
The key is turning now, the bolt flies back — 

He 's come — he 's come ! 
He opens wide the door — his face I see ; 
" Poor captive," he is calling, " you are free ! " 



o 



Oh, For the Hills Again. 6i 



OH, FOR THE HILLS AGAIN ! 
H, for the hills again ! oh, for the hills 



again 



Came from the heart of the ocean ; 
" Give me the fountain side, give me the mountain 
side, 
Far from the billow's commotion ; 
There I was beautiful, there I was music full. 

Yes, if the raindrops but knew it. 
Turn again, ebbing tides, back where my spring 
abides, — 
Ah ! if they only could do it." 

" Oh, for my youth again ! oh, for my youth 
again ! " 
Came from the heart burden breaking ; 
" Make me a boy once more, make me a child once 
more. 
Far from life's quaking and aching ; 
Then I was glad and free, then I was fancy free ; 

Yes, if the children but knew it. 
Turn again, dreary days ! back where my child- 
hood plays, — 
Ah ! if they only could do it." 



62 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 



GOING ABROAD. 

1\ /r Y love and I from childhood planned 

To travel in a foreign land — 
" When we are older," she would say, 
" We '11 go abroad — there '11 be some way. 

*' We '11 go to Switzerland and France 
And view the scenes of old romance. 
And look at emperors and kings 
And ruins, and all ancient things. 

" We '11 visit England. We will see 
The storied plains of Italy. 
We '11 sail together down the Rhine 
And close our trip with Palestine." 

The years slipped by. We did not find 
A time to go, but stayed behind 
And labored while our neighbors went 
Abroad — and so the years were spent. 

And so we waited, toiled, and sung 
Until we were no longer young. 
But never travelled anywhere 
Except to castles in the air. 
****** 

I woke from dreams one Sabbath day 
To find my love had gone away. 
A ship had come from parts unknown 
And carried her abroad, alone. 



Sure. 63 

I did not see the way she went, 

To Orient, or Occident, 

Toward Southern Cross, or Northern Star, 

I do not know if near or far. 

I only know that it must be 
The same swift ship will come for me 
And bear me sometime to the place 
Where I can see her face to face. 

I only know that I shall see 

A fairer land than Italy ; 

And pleasures far more grand and pure, 

Than any earthly foreign tour. 

And so I wait the will of God 

To stay at home or go abroad ; 

Contented if I only may 

Go where my love has gone, some day. 



SURE. 

A/ES, we are sure 

That we shall see her, grown more sweet 
and pure, 
And yet so like, that the first glance will show 
The very darling that we used to know ; 
Sure we shall hasten to the outstretched hand, 
And all the tangled past shall understand ; 
Shall tell the little story of the days 
Since we have parted, taking different ways. 



64 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

We 're sure of this, 

Even while we miss 

The tender pressure of her morning kiss. 

Yes, I am sure, but cannot yet be glad 
That she is glad away from me ; the sad, 
Sad tears (how can I help it) flow. 
Because I love her, and I want her so. 
Sometime I '11 clasp my darling to my breast, 
And find again the olden blessed rest. 
But oh ! the years are long ; I know not how 
To wait. I want her now. 



THE AUTUMN MIRACLE. 

C~\^ wondrous miracle ! The autumn hills, 
^-^^ That lately lifted sober tree-tops up, 
Grow strangely glad. 

A loving Master fills 
With sparkling radiance every leafy cup, 
And all the woods and mountains seem to shine, 
As if He turned their water into wine. 



AN ORIENTAL WISH. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN. 

A^rHEN first those dear eyes pierced the night, 

Thou didst weep. 
While those around thee laughed, with new delight, 

A child to keep. 



A Winter Fancy. 65 

When last thou look'st upon the light, 
And death's long sleep 

Approacheth, smiling, mayst thou say good-night, 
While others weep. 



A WINTER FANCY. 

T^HE Summer is fast asleep 
Under the winter snow ; 
Her bed is warm, her bed is deep, 
Deeper than frosts can go. 

She has slept for many a week ; 

! I wish she would awake ! 

I long for the blush of her rosy cheek, 
And the music she will make. 

Sometimes, when the south wind blows, 

1 fancy that I hear, 

In the hush of the storm, an echo that goes 
Into my longing ear, 

Like the trill of a robin's note. 

Or the murmur of growing things ; 

On the frosty air it seems to float. 

Till it mounts on a snow-flake's wings. 

" 'T is but the wind," they say. 

But my fancy I must keep ; 
The Summer is pushing the snow away 

And talking in her sleep. 



^6 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 



IF I KNEW WHERE. 

VAT' HERE, darling ! Where 

Is heaven ? Oh ! tell me, now that you 
are there. 
We asked the question but a year ago, 
And did not dream that you so soon would know. 
If I could know what hallowed part of space 
Is my immortal darling's dwelling-place. 
Life would be worth the living ; I could bear 
My burden better, till I meet you there, 
If I knew where. 



Is heaven a star ? 

The one that looks upon me now, so far 
Above the shadows ? Do these beams that shine 
So clearly, come from your sweet home to mine ? 
I should be happier, then, if you could be 
Within that radiance looking down on me, 
And I could know it ; through the midnight air. 
Your joy, my darling, I could almost share, 
If I knew where. 

Is heaven here, 

My glorified ? and are you hovering near 

To help me, guide me ? Is it that we 're blind, 

And deaf, and dumb, that we can never find 

The heaven around us ? Are you speaking now 



If I Knew Where. 67 

A language to me, that I know not how 
To hear or render ? Close beside my chair, 
Unseen by me, are angels ; here or there ? 
Oh ! tell me where ? 



It cannot be. 

Nor earth nor star is heaven ; it seems to me. 

Where " gates of gold " and " many mansions " rise, 

In God's illimitable space it lies. 

I will not ask you any more to tell 

The sacred spot, for, oh ! I know too well 

You dare not do it. Up the shining stair 

Should I not hasten, or the curtain tear 

If I knew where ? 



And yet, and yet. 

My darling, I do sometimes quite forget 

That we are parted ; almost feel that I 

Am still where you are ; sometimes even try 

To hear your footstep. Oh, dear heart, dear heari 

My other self, my purer, better part. 

How blest to meet you ! Father, hear my prayer 

Thou art beside me, keep me in Thy care, 

Till I know where. 



68 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 



WAIT. 

C~^ UIDE of my upward path ! 
^~^ Fain would I know 
Sights of the mountain top 

Whither I go ; 
Paint thou on yonder sky 
Pictures, beyond that lie. 

Child ! thou canst plainly see 
All that is good for thee. 

Guide of my upward path ! 

Fain would I hear 
Sounds from the other side, 

Tuneful and clear. 
Is that the song they sing 
Far upward echoing ? 

Wait, child ! 'T will not be long 
Ere thou shalt sing the song. 

Guide of my upward path ! 

Slowly I climb, 
When shall I reach the top ? 

Tell me the time ? 
How many summits rise 
'Twixt me and yonder skies ? 



Lowland Music. 69 

Child ! thou the time shalt know ; 
Hilltops will lighter grow ! 



Guide of my upward path ! 

Close to the skies 
Will a lost hand reach down 

Helping me rise ? 
Will lips that love me wait 
Just by the open gate ? 

Climb, child ! and thou shalt see 
All that is kept for thee. 



LOWLAND MUSIC. 

I_r IGHER ! Still higher ! 

My hungry heart cries out. My strong 
desire 
Spurs me to mount the hilltops ; though my feet 
Have never scaled one slope. It would be sweet 
To climb unto the stars ; to see, to know 
All I have longed for ; would be good to go 
Far up those heights, and place my humble name 
Above the rest upon the crags of fame. 
Come, sacred muse, my thought, my lips inspire ! 
I would mount higher. 



70 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Higher ! Still higher ! 
Your heart cries out. 

Child ! Why should you inquire 
The way to mount ? 

Ah, dullard ! have you seen 
All that is lying 'neath the valley's green ? 
Ere you shall turn toward yonder cliff-pierced sky, 
Survey the lowly valley where you lie ; 
Look in these nooks ; see how the wild-flowers 

bloom ; 
Keep step to lowland music ; drink perfume. 
Then may you mount by your attuned lyre 
Higher ! Still higher ! 



OUTSIDE. 

f~\., distant, near, mysterious land, 
^-^ Where all my household stay ! 
Upon thy vestibule I stand 

At dying of the day. 
And watch the shadows come and go 

Across the close-shut bars. 
And listen for a voice I know, 

Beneath the voiceless stars. 

The curtain lifts, and, from above. 

Familiar fire-lights fall 
Upon my face ; the ones I love 

Are just behind it all. 



Divided. yi 

I rush to meet ! The light goes out, 

If there were any there. 
I listen — linger — all about 

Is silence everywhere. 

O, glorious home ! O, mystery ! 

O, home that shall be mine ! 
What is that immortality 

Beyond thy doors divine ? 
In vain I lift my hand to knock, 

Or strain mine eyes to see ; 
I wait unanswered at the lock, 

Till Death shall turn the key. 



DIVIDED. 

C PIRIT, adieu ! the Body said, 

*^ As Death stood waiting by the bed ; 

The pains of parting rack me so, 

I wish, I long for thee to go ; 

Oh, hasten, Spirit ! it is best 

For thee to go, for me to rest. 

Where dost thou go, my Spirit, say ? 

Is it a long and weary way ? 

Or is it near, so near, that I 

May feel thy presence where I lie 

Beneath the summer sod asleep ? 

How strange a silence thou dost keep I 



72 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

We have been long together, sweet, 
In loving fellowship ; 't is meet 
That we should whisper, ere we part, 
Some tender words ; this faithful heart 
Has beat for thee, so fast, so slow, 
So long — but now go. Spirit, go ! 

Yes, go ! but shouldst thou ever yearn 

For old companionship, or turn 

From heaven to earth, then come and bend 

Awhile above thy life-long friend. 

Till, from some leaf, or bud, or flower. 

My answering dust shall feel thy power. 

But stay ! It is so hard to part ! 
Another beating of the heart ! 
Just one fond whisper, and I must 
Go back to pulseless, voiceless dust ! 
Enough ! Take thou thine upward quest ! 
We meet again, but now, I rest. 



A BROKEN DREAM. 

T DREAMED, it was a dream. I saw her face 
''■ Still smiling on me from the same old place 
She used to wait me. 

" Is it you, my dear ? " 
1 asked. She answered, " Darling, I am here." 



Mary Lyon. 73 

I ran into her arms, I clasped her tight, 

I whirled her round and round in wild delight. 

She talked. I listened, listened, laughed and wept. 

The while my arms around her neck I kept. 

" I dreamed that you were dead ; oh ! can it be 

That you are really here so close to me ? " 

" Forgive my olden foolish words," I plead ; 

" I have forgotten every word," she said. 

" Poor child ! Poor child ! and so you dreamed I 

died. 
Look ! I am here. Are you not satisfied ? " 
And, as she closer to my heart-beats crept 
Until I heard her own, I dreamed I slept. — 
I woke at morn ; O God ! she was not there, 
My lips were kissing into empty air. 
A broken dream — But oh ! my glad lips thrill. 
Though days have passed, with her lips' pressure 

still. 
Easter, i88q. 



MARY LYON. 

C HE did not ask 

To be released from any toilsome task. 
Asked not for wealth or fame or human love ; 
The only prayer her parted lips above 
Was this : 

'' O Father, show me how to be 
Faithful in heart and life, each day, to Thee." 



74 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

She did not fear 

The world's remark ; she heeded not its sneer ; 

Feared not to bear her burden up the height, 

If she were sure each upward step was right ; 

Her only fear, she " might not fully know 

Her duty and perform it daily. " So 

Her cup of days, 

Though spilled at noontime, brimmed with good 

men's praise ; 
Her thought took root, and bud and blossom bore, 
And sweet rich fruit of kind unknown before. 
Success and love and God's sweet comfort came 
To her in life. 

Undying is her fame. 



THOUGHT'S TRYST. 

A^rE sat together, at the twilight hour, 

Beneath the chestnut tree, 
We walked together in the morning cool. 
We three. 

We studied morals from the same dry book. 

And when our task was done. 
We went together to our trysting-place, 
Room one. 

Mingling our tears of parting, at the end. 

We went our separate ways. 
And vowed we 'd never for an hour forget 
Those days. 



Thought's Tryst. 75 

One in the land of roses found a home ; 

One, under northern pines ; 
The other marked upon the dark-land shore 
Her lines. 

Never a word or message do we send 

O'er land or sea, 
We are too busy ; life has too much work 
For memory. 

Never a word or letter do we send ; 

Ah ! we forget, 
In all the whirl and weariness of life, 
And yet — 

Sometimes, at twilight hour, our labor over, 

Our work we fold. 
And wonder what has come to those we cherished 
Of old. 

A tender thought from fragrant pine-tree branches 

Flies o'er the snow ; 
Far, far across the sea, to dark-land fountains 
It goes. 

A tender thought floats down the northern stream- 
let 
To southern streams. 
And asks for just one hour of dreaming 
Old dreams. 



'j6 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Oh ! that our distant thoughts, to-night, might 
gather, 
From land or sea, 
And we might think we sat beneath the chestnut — 
We three. 



AT WORK. 

TO S. R. M. 

' I "HE year is rising from its winter rest, 

The spring is nigh. 
The bird is dreaming of its summer nest, 
While you and I 

Must leave the shelter of our cottage door, 

Its warmth and cheer. 
And go to work as we have done before 

For many a year. 

Beyond the brook, a shadow seems to fall. 

We will not weep. 
But upward look, and thank the Lord for all 

We still may keep. 

The village roofs above the snow-drifts peep 

To see the sun ; 
Be patient, violets, for your winter's sleep 

Is almost done. 



At Rest. 77 

The hanging bough its old sweet robin sees, 

That went away 
And left her cradle empty in the trees 

One autumn day. 

The children wait within their last year's seats, 

While you and I 
Are like the birds : each year the same repeats 

In school and sky. 

Come here, my girls ! my boys ! swing back the 
door. 

And ring the bell ; 
Your coming feet make music on the floor, 

And all is well. 



AT REST. 

TO S. R. M. 

T^HE rolling year draws near its golden noon 

And all the air 
Is fragrant with the rosy breath of June, 

While here and there 
The robins twitter in their blue-egged nests. 

The earth is green, 
Soft silver clouds glide down the mountain crests, 

The hills between 
Are brimmed with music, sunshine, summer flowers, 

And you and I 



78 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Will drink the sweetness of the passing hours, 

And say " Good-bye." 
Good-bye, dear happy girls, and merry boys ; 

Lock up the door 
Of our old schoolhouse, empty of its noise ; 

As oft before 
The elm-trees call me to their grateful rest ; 

Begone, dull care. 
The cottage door is open ; it is blest 

To enter there. 
Come, sister, come, put by the book and slate. 

The ink and pen, 
The kittens at the homely doorstep wait, 

'T is June again ! 



LOST— MY BOY. 

T OST ! I have lost him. 
■■■^ When did he go ? 
Lightly I clasped him, 

How could I know 
Out of my dwelling 

He would depart — 
Even as I held him 

Close to my heart ! 

Lost ! I have lost him. 

Somewhere between 
Schoolhouse and college 

Last he was seen, 



Lost — My Boy. 79 

Lips full of whistling, 

Curl-tangled hair ; 
Lost ! I have lost him. 

Would I knew where. 

Lost ! I have lost him. 

Chester, my boy ! 
Picture-book, story-book. 

Marble and toy. 
Stored in the attic. 

Useless they lie. 
Why should I care so much ? 

Mothers, tell why. 

Yes, he has gone from me ; 

Left me no sign, 
Save that another 

Calls himself mine. 
Handsome and strong of limb. 

Stately is he ; 
Knows things that I do not ; 

Who can it be ? 

Face like the father's face ; 

Eyes black as mine, 
Step full of manly grace, 

Voice masculine. 
Yes, but the gold of life 

Has one alloy ; 
Why does the mother-heart 

Long for her boy ? 



8o Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Long for the mischievous 

Queer little chap, 
Ignorant, questioning, 

Held in my lap. 
Freshman, so tall and wise. 

Answer me this : 
Where is the little boy 

I used to kiss? 



TRANSPLANTED. 



A THOUGHT FROM PHILLIPS BROOKS. 

T IKE Southern plants removed to Northern 
■^ climes, 

That strive to grow, 
And dimly dream of blossoms, oftentimes, 

But do not know 



The way to make them : now, a tiny bud, 

A blighted bloom. 
Betrays the inner longing, tropic blood. 

And lost perfume. 



So we, poor earthly exiles from our own. 

In weakness try 
To put forth actions that our dreams have known. 

And know not why 



Loving Echoes. 8i 

The power is lacking — do not even know 

What we have done, 
Though vaguely conscious life doth never show 

The perfect one. 



" Oh ! for our native soil, so warm and sweet ! " 

We sometimes say, 
But strive our lost ideals to complete 

As best we may. 

And shall we reach them ? 

Yes ; from hour to hour, 

Even as we try. 
So surely to the heaven-born perfect flower 

We shall draw nigh. 

And, by-and-by, O, yes ! I do believe 

There is a day. 
Life's rose transplanted, shall the power receive 

To bloom alway. 



LOVING ECHOES. 

"P RAISE, and the world will heed you, 

Blame, and it heeds you not. 
For a word of praise in the memory stays, 
Never to be forgot ; 



82 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Or, if chiding be remembered, 

It is only for its sting, 
But loving words, like songs of birds, 

Are forever echoing. 

Look for the fragrant roses, 

Not for the thorns and weeds, 
P'or the crimson sky, when night is nigh, 

And the golden sun recedes. 
Glistens the Starry Dipper, 

Sparkles the Milky-Way, 
Through midnight trees, the clear eye sees 

Glimpses of dawning day. 

Kisses but not upbraidings. 

The smile but not the frown. 
For the love must be deep that afloat will keep, 

If harshness press it down ; 
Like the falling dews of summer. 

Or the welcome autumn rain, 
Kind words may flow from the lips, and go 

To the skies of the heart again. 

Praise, and your friend will hear you. 

Blame, and he heeds you not. 
For a word of praise in the memory stays. 

Never to be forgot ; 
But if chiding be remembered, 

It is only for its sting. 
And loving words, like songs of birds. 

Are forever echoing. 



A Star Call Be as Perfect as a Sun. 83 



A STAR CAN BE AS PERFECT AS A SUN. 

■pECAUSE you cannot be 
^-^ An overhanging bow, 
Whose promise all the world can see, 
Why are you grieving so ? 

A dew-drop holds the seven colors too ; 

Can you not be a perfect drop of dew ? 

Because you cannot be 

Resplendent Sirius, 
Whose shining all the world can see. 
Why are you grieving thus ? 
One tiny ray will reach out very far ; 
Can you not be a perfect little star ? 

The smallest, faintest star 

That dots the Milky-Way, 
And sends one glimmer where yon are, 
Gives forth a faultless ray ; 
Learn then this lesson, oh, discouraged one ! 
A star can be as perfect as a sun. 



84 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 



THE HAPPY CHOICE * 



H 



APPINESS! happiness! 
How shall I find ? 
Perfect, unchangeable, 

Free as the wind ? 
Fame ? it abideth not, 
Power ? it will sting, 
Gold ? as it glittereth 
Joy taketh wing. 
Take what is offered thee child, from above — 

Choose Love. 

If in the desert soil 

Love's rootlet grows, 
Soon is the blossoming 

Sweet as the rose ; 
Love that can change a sigh 

Into a song — 
Generous, compassionate, 

Suffering long. 
Lift up thy hand to this gift from above — 

Choose Love. 

By and by, singing birds 
Finding a nest 



* Suggested by an article in a late magazine, written by Mrs. 
K. D. Wiggin. 



The Happy Choice. 85 

Close to thy happy heart, 

Thou shalt find rest — 
Rest glad and comforting, 

Though it should be, 
Wings that are tipped with gold 
Fly over thee. 
Lift up thine eyes to this gift from above — 

Choose Love. 

Shall I grow weary then 

After a while ? 
Tired of the melody, 

Tired of the smile ? 
Weary, but not of love — 

Ask me not why 
Life has its thunder-clouds. 

Even as the sky. 
Soon thou shalt see the sun shining above — 

Choose Love. 

Life is not all complete ; 

Earth is not heaven ; 
Life is not all unrest. 

If love be given. 
Though the bright sun be hid. 

Shadowed in doubt, 
Live by love's candle light. 

Blow it not out. 
Wait, and the morning will break from above — 

Choose Love. 



86 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Flowers shall spring up for thee, 

Perfumed with peace, 
Even when the morning sun 

Seemeth to cease ; 
Love shall illuminate 

Darkening years. 
Love shall still keep for thee 

Kisses and tears. 
Hold up thy hand, my child ! Reach it above — 

Choose Love. 

Love, as of friend for friend, 

Faithful and true ; 
Love, like a mother's heart 

Beating for you. 
Love, like a brother's love. 

Tender and strong ; 
Love, like a lover's love, 

Thinking no wrong. 
Love the immortal, sent down from above — 

Choose Love. 



SAYS I AND SAYS HE. 

Q^AYS I to the Deacon, says I : 

'^ The world is what you make it : 

Give your neighbor a cuff and he '11 try 

To cuff you back, I take it. 
But give him a helpin' hand. 

In plantin' time or in hoein', 



Says I and Says He. 8/ 

An keep your critters off' on his land, 

He never will be throwin' 
Stones acrost — so it 'pears to me. 
" That 's so, that 's so," says the Deacon, says he. 



Says I to the Deacon, says I : 

The Bible is all of it true, sir, 
As good to read as to practise by. 

For people like me an' you, sir. 
But I tell ye, I 'd like to know 

Why all o' the parson's preachin', 
An' all his prayin', an' so an' so. 

Is n't no further reachin' 
Into the pockets o' you an' me, 
" Ahem, ahem," says the Deacon, says he. 

Says I to the Deacon, says I : 

This talkin' about probation. 
An' sendin' the Andover folks so high. 

Is a terrible aggravation 
To peaceable people, tryin' to do 

As we 'd like to have done to us ; 
It seems to me, don't it seem to you, 

They are makin' a terrible fuss, 
Lawin' an' prayin' don't agree. 
" That 's so, that 's so," says the Deacon, says he. 

Says I to the Deacon, says I : 
You are havin' a heap o' trouble. 



88 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

An' I s'pose you think, by the way you sigh, 

Your share is more than double ; 
But I tell you what I think ; 

If you was neighbor Jack, sir. 
You 'd swap with yourself as quick as a wink. 

An' be glad o' your own big pack, sir ; 
Your troubles might be bigger 'n they be. 
" Taint so, taint so," says the Deacon, says he. 

Says I to the Deacon, says I : 

I am tryin' a brand new plan — 
To take things just as they come, an' try 

To be as happy as I can ; 
An' the notion 's workin' well, 

For the neighbors are 'mazin' kind ; 
An' I think if you 'd try it yourself a spell 

You 'd be of a cheerfuller mind ; 
'T would be better for you, as it is for me. 
" Dunno, dunno," says the Deacon says he. 

Says the Deacon to me, says he ; 

" I 'm a thorough-bred Orthodox, 
But it don't appear to be hinderin' me 

From gettin' some master hard knocks ; 
An' as to the great dispute, 

I never was half so good 
At a splittin' hairs like Parson Nute 

As at splittin' kindlin' wood ; 
An' I think 't would be better for you an' me 
To be lookin' to home," says the Deacon, says he. 



A Wedding Song. 89 



A WEDDING SONG. 



K. M. AND H. A. 



"X^rHAT gilds the mountain tops, 

Last year so gray ? 
What is the murmuring brook 

Singing to-day ? 
Ah ! 'T is your thoughts, my love, 

Gild the high peaks ; 
" Love is the best of all," 

Thus the brook speaks. 
Sing of a love so sweet murmuring springs. 
Whitening the mountain tops with Cupid's wings. 

What paints the lily cup. 

Last year so pale ? 
What new sweet breath creeps up 

On the soft gale ? 
Ah ! 'T is your thought, my love, 

New brightness sees ; 
" Love is the best of all," 

Floats on the breeze. 
Lily and fragrant rose say unto you : 
" Old things have passed away, all things are new. 

What lights the sky of eve, 
Last year so dark ? 



90 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

What calms the billow's heave 

Under my bark ? 
Ah ! 'T is your thoughts my love 

Crimson the sky ; 
Love's breezes float your boat 

Merrily by. 
Enter the heaven of bliss, haven of rest ; 
" Love is the best of all, love is the best." 



MOTHER'S GIRL. 

HE sits securely by my side, 
^ My bonny little lass ! 

The world is cold, the world is wide, 

I let the cold world pass ; 
With Mary smiling up at me, 

1 care not what the world may be. 

She looks into my faded face. 

My bonny little lass ! 
But does not see the wrinkled place 

Where time's rough footsteps pass ; 
She measures me by love's own rule, 
And thinks, " Mamma is beautiful." 

She asks me many curious things. 
My bonny little lass ! 
" Be angels shaking out their wings ? " 
She says, when snow-showers pass. 



When Merry Sleigh Bells Ring. 

I kiss her happy face and say : 
" Angels have surely passed this way." 

She looks at me with curious eyes, 

My bonny little lass ! 
Queer little questions quaintly stir 

The rippling words that pass. 
" Is God a Quaker ? 'Cause, you know, 
He Thees and Thous the verses so." 

She holds her head against my breast, 

My bonny little lass ! 
Her eyelids droop, her tired lips rest. 

Her thoughts to dreamland pass ; 
While bending down to kiss that curl, 
I hear her whisper, " Mother's girl." 



WHEN MERRY SLEIGH BELLS RING. 

T^rHEN merry sleigh bells ring 
So silvery, soft and sweet. 

When all the fields are answering 
Till blending echoes meet, 

Along the road I climb, I climb. 

And as I climb I sing — 

To their glad chime ; 
Oh ! happy time, 

When merry sleigh bells ring. 



92 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

I see far down the vale, 

The river wrapped in snow ; 
But sometimes peeping to inhale 
The breath of winds that blow, 
And now the river winds and winds, 
And now seems listening. 
But half resigned 
To be confined, 
When merry sleigh bells ring. 



A bit of shining crust 

Holds down the feathery flakes 
Beside me ; far beneath the dust, 

No sleeping bud awakes ; 
But as the children shout and shout, 
I mind me of the spring, 
For all about, 
Fresh joys leap out, 
When merry sleigh bells ring. 

Till back I come and sit, 

And hear the tinkling sound ; 
I watch the forms that float and flit 

Above the icy ground. 
And " Oh ! the world is bright, is bright 
My fingers seem to sing ; 

My pen moves light 
From left to right, 
When merry sleigh bells ring. 



Winter Violets. 93 



WINTER VIOLETS. 

C OMETIMES for an hour in December, 
^ We seem to catch glimpses of May, 
And we smile as we fondly remember 

The nooks where the violets stay ; 
Just over the bank by the river, 

Safe under the sheltering snows, 
They are waiting, as onward forever 

The invisible rivulet flows. 

Sometimes in life's chilly December 

We seem to catch glimpses of spring. 
And the snows only make us remember 

That they cover the blossoming, 
For as under the drifts of the meadow 

Wild flowers may be pushing through, 
So we smile as we see the shadow 

Of the old underneath the new. 

Under the leaf is the blossom, 

Beneath the tear is the smile ; 
And the earth conceals in its bosom 

The seed but a little while ; 
Under the foot of the snow-drift. 

Is a budding anemone ; 
And under the ice of death, the rift 

Of immortality. 



94 So?igs from the Woods of Maine. 



LIVING STILL. 

r^OES he live yet ? The home he fondly planned 
^^^ Long years ago, is resting on the land 
Where he beheld it. Yonder spreading tree 
Is the same one he planted, and the three 
Stand in a line, just as the twigs were set, 
When, by his loving hand, their roots were wet. 
The bush he planted lives, and thrives, and grows, 
And bears each passing year his favorite rose. 
And shall the thing he planned so long endure, 
And he live not ? Ah, no ; dear heart ! Be sure. 
Although that throbbing heart has long been still. 
The soul above it is the same, and will 
Sometime assert its own. My eyes are wet 
With tears, but not for him, — He 's living yet. 



THAT BLESSED SPRING. 

WJ HEN the winter of lifetime has melted away. 

And the song of the robin awakes. 
When the hilltops are bright with the blossoms of 
May, 
And the spring of eternity breaks, 
How the hearts that are longing, with gladness shall 
glow. 
As the love-scented winds out of Paradise blow ! 



Oh, Summer Sky ! 95 

Then hasten, O life ! from the bud to the bloom, 
From the bloom to the golden-hued leaf. 

Let the roses drop downward, the harvest have 
room, 
And the joy-bells of Christmas be brief. 

Fall fast, winter snowflakes ! for oh ! I would see 

The Easter Immortal that 's waiting for me. 



OH, SUMMER SKY! 

/^H, Summer Sky ! The Arab told 
^^ His fortune from thy stars of gold ; 
The Hebrew shepherd smiled to view 
This very shade of crystal blue, 
When watching in Judean fold ; 
I look to thee with heart less bold. 
And long to learn some lesson new 
From star or cloud of violet hue, 
Oh, Summer Sky ! 

But lo ! I see the heavens enrolled 
In constellations, as of old ; 
The self-same stars Hipparchus knew. 
Sparkle on this fresh drop of dew, 
This rosebud does to thee uphold, 
Oh, Summer Sky ! 



9^ Songs from the Woods of Maine. 



LIFE. 

/^H, Life ! How short thou art ! 
^-^^ Short, though so sweet ! 
Short is the backward path 

Trod by my feet ; 
Short is the path ahead, 

Swiftly I go ; 
Whither my steps have led 

Soon I shall know ; 
Soon shall we know, dear heart ! 
Life ! oh, how short thou art ! 

Oh, Life ! how short thou art ! 

Let me look back ! 
Tear drops ! ye need not start ! 

What do I lack ? 
Short is the road I 've tried, 

Hilltops I see. 
Over the other side 

Soon I shall be ; 
Soon shall be there, dear heart ! 
Life ! oh, how short thou art ! 



A Rondeau. The Child and the Rivulet. 97 



A RONDEAU. THE CHILD AND THE 
RIVULET. 

■p IVULET ! Crystally clear ! 
■■-^ Under the wing of the shade ! 
What are you looking for here, 
Running on, year after year, 

Out of the mountain cascade ? 
Looking for springs bubbling near ? 

Watching how violets are made ? 

Listening for showers in the glade ? 
Rivulet ? 

Little maid ! sweet and sincere ! 

Shower-scented violets may fade, 
If you will drop me one tear, 
The voice I am listening for here, 

Is yours. Down the valley conveyed, 
'T will echo forever, my dear ! 

Rivulet. 



SONNETS. 



99 



SONNETS. 



TRUST. 



A LITTLE girl came home from school one day, 
Holding within her hands a pretty weed, 
And saying : " Mamma, once it was a seed, 
And then it burst itself, and right away. 
It peeped above the ground ; God let it stay 
Where it could see the sky." 

" When did you read 
That story, pet," I asked. " I did n't need 
To read " 

she said ; 

" I heard my teacher say 
'T was so." 

Dear child ! if we the One who knows 
Believed, like you ! when seeds forgotten lie, 
" Out of the dark divinest beauty grows," 
Could say : 

" And, blinded, seeks the sunlit sky " — 
Ah ! could we trust, not that the whole we know, 
But simply that the Master told us so. 



I02 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 



POSSESSION. 

1\ /r Y neighbor's meadow just across the way 

Is broader than my humble hillside field, 
More golden grain or barley it can yield, 
But does it wear a brighter green to-day ? 

At morn Aurora's life-reviving ray 

Tips all my rugged lands with fiery gold, 
Before it shines upon my neighbor's hay, 
Or warms the lambs within his ample fold. 

And though his lofty elm and willow trees 
Are grand to him and to the passer-by, 

Far more it does my simple nature please. 
To feast upon these apple-trees mine eye. 

My neighbor thinks his intervale is fine ; 

I like my orchard better — It is mine. 



SING AND LOOK UP. 

A N early bird flew back, one April day. 

To cold New England fields, remembered 
well 
When dressed in summer green. 

Clear as a bell. 
She sang : " To-weet, to-weet, 't is almost May." 
And then she ceased. White drifts piled up the way 



Recognition. 103 

Where'er the singer looked ; she rose and fell, 
Lightly she touched the empty ice-bound cell, 
Where last year's birdlings learned their lay 
From her own lullaby. 

Beak toward the sun. 
Again she gladly trilled ; 

" To-weet, to-weet, 
If I but wait the winter will be done ; 
To-weet, to-weet, how happy I shall be ! " 
Ah ! snow-bound heart, the long days have begun, 
" Sing and look up, " the bird is telling thee. 



RECOGNITION. 



A SONNET FOR M. G. 



A LONELY exile from your native cot 

In Switzerland, you look in every face 
To find a friend. Perchance with joy you trace 
In some new countenance the likeness sought 
And cry, " It is a Swiss ! " Then scenes forgot 
Return, and you are back a little space, 
In glacier-watered Berne. You pass the place 
Where home-folks live, and walk the very spot 
Where childhood ran. Even thus, my friend, do we 
Earth-exiled meet. Surprised, awhile we stand 
Till I can trace in you (Do you in me ?) 
The Master's face, and cry as hand clasps hand, 
" A countryman ! " Th.Q fa??iily look we see, 
And talk together of the Father-land, 



I04 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 



THE OLD PETITION. 

"\"\rE pray that sorrow may not touch our 

friends : 
God hears, but sends the pain. 

We pray for cure, 
Or that the tried soul bravely may endure, 
And, even while we pray, the suffering ends 
In death ; our quivering lip still upwards sends. 
The old petition : Through the dim obscure 
We raise our cries for those who are more pure 
And glad than we can think, for parting rends 
Our souls so deeply, we do quite forget. 
Upon our knees, that all our darling's need 
Of help is past. 

Oh ! while our eyes are wet 
With fresh-fallen grief, and while torn heart-strings 

bleed, 
I think the Heavenly Father will not care 
If, for our lost, we breath the same old prayer . 



SUCCESS. 

A. M. 

"D ACK to his childhood home he came. 

Having been absent one and forty years. 
He left with empty purse and dropping tears, 
And carried no ancestral honored name. 



opportunity, 105 

He had come back : 

The village was the same, 
The parsonage, the valleys, and the hills, 
The mountain peaks, the murmur of the rills. 
The western sunset with its radiant flame ; 
But on his manly face was printed now 
A story that his childhood never told. 
" No need have I to show the people how 
My dross of life was turned to shining gold ; 
Faith, hope, and love, a purpose firm and free, 
Have honored my nativity in me." 



OPPORTUNITY. 

" TT might have been," he sadly said to me. 

And threw himself upon the grassy ground. 
And picked up withered leaves that floated round. 
" It might have been, alas, it cannot be ! 
Put back the fallen twigs upon that tree. 
For evening sunset change the morning glow, 
Bring back your rosy cheek, — tell me to go 
And push the coming tide into the sea, 
But that lost chance I never can regain." 
I pointed to the swinging boughs above, 
And said : "New leaves are there, and still remain 
Fresh opportunities for fame and love ; 
The spring-times come and go eternally. 
Arise — It might have been and it may be." 



io6 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 



THE OLD CLOCK. 

T T NCHANGING record of the changing days ! 
Still backward, forward, ticks thy pendulum, 
That, for a century has swayed. 

Springs come 
And go — swift summers pass, and autumn lays 
Her fruit upon the lap of earth, nor stays 
To join the Christmas feast. 

The busy hum 
Of home thou heedest not, nor lips grown dumb 
With grief, while round thy moon-faced dial's 

ways 
The seconds march : Those leaden weights were 

wound 
By hands that fought the king. 

How proud thy swing ! 
As if thy thoughts were, like thy years, profound. 
And all the buried past could backward bring. 
Four generations ticked into the ground, 
Is it not time to stop thy winding string? 



THE AWAKING. 

A S a sweet baby from his morning dream 

Awakes, sometimes, and lies without a sound, 
And all his rose-bud fingers twirl around 
The while his violet eyes, half open, seem 



A Nezv Years Sonnet. 107 

Their petals to unfold, and pink cheeks beam 
As if glad thoughts the little brain had found ; 
But when the mother's step upon the ground 
He hears, his red lips speak the word supreme 
In mothers' hearts — " Agoo ! " 

So, we shall rise. 
Perchance, when we awake from life's brief sleep. 
Not all at once, but lie in rapt surprise, 
And eye and lip all motionless shall keep, 
Until we speak, as new-born powers expand. 
Some glad strange word that God shall under- 
stand. 



A NEW-YEAR'S SONNET. 

f~\ GLAD New Years ! How rapidly ye rush 
^^ To yonder ocean ! Like a fountain's play 
Ye seemed of yore ; now, like a cataract's sway, 
From month to month the onward minutes push. 
My June day rose has hardly learned to blush 
Before its petals wither ; harvest day 
And Christmas evening and the jingling sleigh 
Of cold December mingle with the crush 
Of April thunder. 

If at morn I lie 
To hear again the voice of summer's song, 
Behold the scarlet leaves go fluttering by ! 
Years, ye are mingling in a mighty throng ! 
Oh, stop a little while, and let me try 
To pick the blossoms as I move along ! 



io8 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 



OUT-DOOR MUSIC. 

T^HE windows of my soul fly open wide 
*- Sometimes, and thoughts rush forth, like 
birds set free 
From cage, that almost seem to carry me 
To Heaven. 

Upon the clouds awhile I ride, 
My vision widened, strengthened, purified. 
And then the sashes drop; I cannot see; 
Each dingy pane reveals obscurity. 
And serves one purpose only to divide 
My soul from light. 

Oh, that T understood 
The way to keep the glass at night so clear 
The stars would always find me ! 

If I could 
Learn how to lift the windows till I hear 
The out-door music, surely living would 
Be happier, better. — 

Can you tell me, dear ? 



THROUGH TRUST. 

OENEATH Mt. Holyoke elms, sometimes, I 

stand. 
And, glancing at the glorious evening sky, 
One distant, starless, vacant spot descry. 
That drops down darkness on the shining land ; 



From Page to Page. 109 

But if I cross the common, place the grand 
Strong telescope before my lifted eye, 
And strive that mystic void to magnify. 
Behold ! ere half the widening space is scanned, 
A sparkling host appears. 

And thus I think 
We look, beloved, toward the Eternal Blue, 
Some gloomy grief this side ; toward earth we shrink, 
And say, 

" How dark ! " 

We '11 mount ; we '11 look anew 
Through trust, and our expanded vision will 
Life's far-off sky with twinkling glory fill. 



FROM PAGE TO PAGE. 

T IFE is a book in two grand volumes writ ; 
^^ The first read here, the second yonder ; great 
The themes in each, and all inadequate 
Our finite minds to grasp the infinite. 
Or read its chapters now. 

If, bit by bit, 
We read, examine, reason, meditate 
On every word of this, we can translate 
The other by and by. Why then omit 
That sentence hard, or glance above, below, 
From page to page, or long to look ahead. 
Or try to turn the leaves that you may know 
The sequel of the second part, instead 
Of giving careful study, as you go, 
To every line until the volume's read ? 



I lo Songs from the Woods of Maine. 



LIFTED. 

T IFE is a cradle, where the soul must lie 
■^ And gather strength for its immortal years. 
We sleep — we wake — shed unavailing tears 
For fancied troubles, while we vainly try 
To reach outside, or strain our feeble eye 
Across the distant darkness. 

All our fears 
God knows ; His ear turns earthward when He 

hears 
Our cries ; and, oh ! the mother's lullaby 
Is not so sweet as Heaven's. 

Then murmur not. 
Sad soul, that in the cradle long hast lain; 
A step draws near — God's child is not forgot ; 
Ask not among the pillows to remain ! 
Soon, soon, shalt thou, oh, life-renewing thought ! 
Be lifted to the enfolding arms again. 



TO J. E. S. 

C^\ friend ! to whom I showed, but yesterday, 
^^ My inmost heart ! your listening ear I miss ; 
I bend to hear your voice ; I think your kiss 
Is on my lip. 

My pen I put away. 



Uncertamty. 1 1 1 

Sometimes, and softly to myself I say, 

" To-morrow I will tell her this, and this," 

Forgetting you have entered into bliss, 

And need me not ; forgetting that I may 

Not read my poem, that is almost done. 

And hear your gentle comment, " It is good," 

Or 

" Make that better." 

Ah ! no other one 
Would care to listen, nor have understood 
The far beginning of the tales I 've spun ; 
None keep for me the heart of motherhood. 



UNCERTAINTY. 

TF I could only know, this very day, 

''■ What the dim future holds within its store, 

And if my portion should be less or more ; 

If I could know, with perfect certainty, 

What work I ought to choose, what rocky way 

Or flowery path my wandering feet should tread, 

What suns or storms should fall upon my head 

Before December took the place of May, 

I should be satisfied to walk the road 

Which had been marked by heavenly hand for me, 

To take with willing heart my sweet abode 

In country home, or cottage by the sea ; 

But, oh ! I often see not what to do, 

And murmur, " Father ! if I only knew ! " 



112 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 



SEAWARD. 

"C^ROM west to east, perchance, we gaily ride 
Some summer morning. 

As we onward go, 
And watch the fields, and towns, and cities, lo ! 
They all seem backward moving. 

At our side 
The traveller does not stir, but westward glide 
Men, women, children, prairies, brooks that glow 
In early sunlight — all sweet things that grow. 
While we sit still. 

And thus we seem to bide 
On life's brief journey ; till we think, may be, 
Our little world has backward bent. 

We smile. 
Or weep, when forms familiar fade or flee. 
And say : " How things do change ! " " How earth 

grows vile ! " 
" How dark ! " when, to the twilight of the sea, 
'T is we alone are moving all the while. 



AURORA. 

' I ^HE morn walks gaily down the eastern hills. 

And lifts the rosy curtain of the sky ; 
Upon the land she turns her flashing eye. 
And all her fragrant breath the valley fills ; 
She sprinkles sunshine on the sparkling rills, 



Unsatisfied. 1 1 3 

And looks for corners where the daisies lie ; 
Or lingers where the orioles flit by, 
And drops fresh songs into their open bills ; 
She wakes the maiden from her summer dream, 
And calls the singing laborer from his bed ; 
And lends the buttercups new tints, that seem 
To take their colors from her golden head ; 
And tunes the voices of the wood and stream. 
And follows where the starry night has fled. 



UNSATISFIED. 

"DLIND, blind from very birth was I, 

But always happy ; heaven and earth were 
kind, 
Gladness kept watch above me ; for I did not try 
Nor care to see, not knowing I was blind. 

I gained my sight, I saw a little way 

About my path ; the summer fields were green. 
And stars were radiant. Why was I not gay 

As I had been before my eyes had seen 
The rainbow or the rose ? I am not blind. 

Not wholly blind ; and yet I often weep 
Because I see no farther. All my mind 

Is racked with wonder. If I try to sleep, 
Strange light peeps through ray half-shut lids, 

and I 
Arise at morn — unsatisfied, unblest. 

" Oh, for the happy days ! " I sometimes cry, 
" The days of blindness, ignorance, and rest ! " 

8 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



FOR MY FRIENDS. 



"5 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



GRANDMOTHER'S FLOWER* 

FOR MRS. JULIA W. BUTLER. 

T T NDER the fragrant alcove 

Where her cherished flowers bloom, 
Watching the tender smilax shoot, 

Or the ivy round the room, 
She sings : " Oh, my beautiful flowers. 

My lily and columbine, 
Jasmine and rose and japonica, 

I love you, and you are mine ! " 

" Oh, my fuchsia, rich and bright. 

And my rare geranium. 
My pansy that turns to find the light, 

My white chrysanthemum ! 
I have watched your threading roots, 

I have bent your graceful stems, 
I have trimmed your branches, trained your vines ; 

You are more to me than gems." 
* Mary Butler Thwing. 
117 



1 1 8 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

" Bright-eyed daisy buds 

Out in the garden grow, 
The woods are full of sweet wild-flowers, 

That is their place to grow ; 
I would not ask for these. 

Let them be bright and strong, 
Beneath the shelter of the trees, 

In nooks where they belong." 

" The flowers I love to tend 

Are those that need my care. 
The drooping slip I long to help. 

Or make the faded fair. 
Oh, my sweet and beautiful flowers, 

My lily and columbine, 
My pink and rose and japonica, 

I love you, and you are mine ! " 

Under the fragrant alcove. 

Where her cherished flowers blow, 
Watching she tends another plant, 

And smiles to see it grow. 
And she sings : 

" Oh, my precious blossom ! 

My all sweet flowers in one ! 
Your lips to me are roses red, 

Your eyes fringed gentian. 
Your breath is mignonette. 

Your neck the lily bell. 
Your arms my ivy clinging yet, 

And you, my immortelle." 



Fourteen Happy Years. 119 

" Beneath these buds and flowers, 

I gave, one year ago, 
My dearest plant to one who said, 

' My garden needs it so.' 
Orange blossoms bright. 

Smiles, and a marriage bell, 
Prayers, and tears, and vows of right, 

And now, an immortelle." 

Singing still lower, softer, 

" May the Lord our darling keep," 
Grandma's voice is silent now. 

Baby has gone to sleep ; 
One more look at the flowers, 

When her pleasant task is done, 
Then a whisper across the cradle low, 

" This is the fairest one." 



FOURTEEN HAPPY YEARS.* 

T7OURTEEN happy years 

We 've wound along the path, through smiles 
and tears. 
While you have held me, husband, by the hand 
And drawn me gently toward the mountain land ; 
If I was weary, on your faithful breast 
I always found a refuge and a rest. 

* Written for Mrs. Helen C. Beedy on the death of her 
husband. 



I20 ' Songs front the Woods of Maine. 

The journey, darling, has been very sweet ; 
The joy you gave, so constant, so complete, 
That all the time before it, disappears 
Beneath the radiance of these happy years. 

Fourteen happy years 

You shielded me from sorrow, cares, and fears ; 

Brought me the brightest buds, the fairest flowers 

And mixed with gladness all my saddest hours. 

Your age was double mine, they say, forsooth. 

Who knew not how you kept the heart of youth. 

And how your years at last seemed bles]^with mine 

Until they were as one. The Life Divine 

Is yours, my darling, now ; oh, dropping tears ! 

Touch not the brightness of those happy years. 

Fourteen happy years 

We helped each other. You have wiped my tears, 

And I kept yours from falling. We have felt 

Our prayers mount up together as we knelt. 

Together we have laid beneath the sod 

Our dearest darlings ; to the will of God 

AVe have submitted, as we turned our eyes 

Together, husband, to the self-same skies ; 

And, though your voice is silent in my ears, 

I thank the Lord for Fourteen happy years. 

Fourteen happy years 

We walked together ; when my footstep nears 
The place where you went upward, shall I see 
My husband stooping down to welcome me ? 



My New Years Wish. 121 

Oh ! will you take me to your loving breast ? 
And bear me heavenward, when 't is time to rest ? 
Dear home, sweet home ! you well may mourn his 

loss, 
But I will dry my tears, and look across 
Into the mansion that to us is given 
For all the eternal years — Oh, Blessed Heaven ! 



MY NEW YEAR'S WISH. 

TO C. S. W. 

A^HAT shall I wish for thee 

On this new Year, 
Friend, whose bright face has often brought 
The sunshine here. 

Shall it be wealth ? 

Ah ! that might be 
A weight that dragged from Heaven to earth 

Continually. 

Shall it be love ? 

Ah ! that is thine, — 
The sweet earth love, so blest and true. 

And the Divine. 

Shall it be fame ? 

I do not know 
Whether 't is good for thee and thine 

To have it so. 



1 22 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Shall it be power ? 

Dost thou know how 
To use it rightly every day and hour ? 

I '11 wish it now. 

Let it be trust. 

Thine own and more, 
A heart so full of heavenly peace, it must 

Be running o'er ; 

Be running o'er, 

Till thy brimmed cup 
Shall touch thy neighbor's heart, so void before. 

And fill it up. 

This is my wish, dear friend, 

And, if 't is best, 
I hope kind Heaven this priceless gift will send, 

And all the rest. 



HIS BIRTHDAY.* 

T^rHAT birthday present could I send, 

This summer morn, to you, my friend ? 
What birthday gift would be in tune 
With earth and heaven this day in June ? 

* Written for Mrs. Julia Stubbs on her husband's birthday. 



His Birthday. 123 

Shall I send flowers ? A crimson rose 
Upon the bush you planted, grows ; 
I pick it now, I kiss its face. 
And send it to your dwelling-place. 

Shall I send books ? A volume waits 
For you, of life this side the gates ; 
I press its leaves, so clean and fair. 
And send it, darling, where you are. 

Shall I send words of tenderness ? 
Or loving deed ? or fond caress, 
Such as you always gave to me 
The birthday morns that used to be ? 

If I could all these tokens send 
From earth to heaven, beloved friend. 
Would you look up with beaming eye 
And thank me as in days gone by ? 

Ah, yes, your faithful love, I know, 
Eternally will stronger grow. 
And, though heaven's fulness be complete, 
A gift from me would still be sweet. 

They reckon not by natal days 
Up there, a loving whisper says ; 
And it is so ; but I am sure 
Your love forever will endure. 



124 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Therefore, in this familiar place, 

Made bright by your remembered face, 

I can with your own soul commune. 

And send my thoughts, through skies of June, 

To you. My eyes to yours I lift, 

My faithfulness, your birthday gift. 



"GOD KNOWS WHY." 

IN MEMORIAM CARRIE BEATRICE COFFIN. 

1\ /FY Darling ! on the flash of lightning sped 

The news too quickly, " She you love is 
dead." 
I hastened homeward as if you were there. 
Only the lovely robe you used to wear ; 
Only a pure white form that held no more 
Your blessed spirit, lay inside the door ; 
Only an angel face, whose close-shut eyes 
Moved not, but seemed to look beyond the skies. 
" Darling," I cried, " oh ! wherefore must you die ? " 
A whisper seemed to answer, " God knows why." 
Yes, God knows why, but to my feeble sight 
'T is deepest darkness with no glimpse of light. 
I miss you so at morning, noon, and eve, 
And cannot think 't is wrong for me to grieve ; 
I miss you and I want you every hour ; 
The song has lost its sweetness, and the flower 



Four Years Ago. \2'- 

Has lost its fragrance, and the evening prayer 
Unanswered falls upon the pulseless air, 
Because you join not, and I vainly try 
To stop my tears, and whisper " God knows why.' 

He knows and sometime I shall surely know 
The reason why, and yet the tear-drops flow 
Unbidden, as your tenderness I miss, 
And long, my darling, for your vanished kiss. 
He knows, and some time I shall plainly hear 
The blessed answer echoing in my ear ; 
Perhaps some danger lay along your road. 
Some fearful trouble, or some heavy load 
For you to bear ; and so, my dear, I '11 try 
To murmur : " It is best, for God knows why." 



FOUR YEARS AGO. 

71^ OUR years ! my darling, can it be 

That you have been away from me 
So long ? Yes, four New-Years have passed 
Since I was happy. Oh ! that last. 
That happiest Christmas, when we sat 
So glad, so gay, not knowing that 
A shadow close beside us lay. 
To darken every Christmas day ; — 
That happiest Christmas when you said 
" I 'm glad that we are here," and led 
My tripping feet to find the path 
Along December's aftermath. 



126 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Four years in heaven ! How much you know 

That I know not ! Four years ago 

We read the self-same books, and turned 

The leaves together ; now, you 've learned 

Heaven's mysteries. Why must I wait 

Alone, confused, disconsolate, 

And long to have your lips explain 

The verses, one by one, again ? 

Is it that I may better know 

Heaven's alphabet before I go ? 

Oh, then, dear Master ! wilt thou teach 

My soul, to-day, the heavenly speech ? 



"BE BRAVE." 

"DE brave ! " she said, 

As I stood weeping by her dying bed, 
And knew that long before the morrow's sun, 
Too well my aching heart could tell "which one " 
Knew she was slipping far beyond the touch 
Of hand or lip that loved her, oh so much ! 
" Be brave, my own ! " 
She murmured ; " oh, not long you '11 be alone ! " 

And I have tried 

To be so brave, since that sad day she died ; 
Have tried to do the things she would have done, 
And do them well ; but oh, from sun to sun, 



One Year Ago. 127 

The days are long, my song becomes a moan ; 

No one to talk with, who is all my own ! 

I can't be brave, 

When she who shielded, sleeps in yonder grave. 

And yet, be brave ! 

It is not she who sleeps in yonder grave. 

Heart ! Put on panoply of hope and trust ; 

Eyes ! stop that weeping ; Trembling hands ! ye 

must 
Take up her work ; Feet ! hasten ye to go 
Wherever duty calls ; why falter so ? 
I would be brave — 
Dear Christ ! I fail without Thee ; come and save! 



ONE YEAR AGO.* 

/^NE year ago, one little year ! 
^-^^ But oh, the weary miles 
That lie between my dropping tears 

And those remembered smiles ! 
" One year ago this very day " 

They tell me — O'er my heart 
A century has passed away, 

Since we have walked apart. 

* Written for Mrs. Marcia Knapp one year after her 
husband's death. 



128 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Since we have walked apart, my own ! 

Ah ! when I clasped your hand, 
And felt your arm around me thrown, 

I could not understand 
How desolate the path would grow, 

How hard the hills would be. 
My darling ! One short year ago ! 

And yet — so long to me ? 

One year ago (ah ! can it be ?) 

I watched the coming train. 
That brought my happiness to me. 

And did not watch in vain, — 
The hurrying step, the opened door. 

The clasp, the jest, the kiss. 
The loving smile, the cheery talk, 

A little heaven of bliss ! 

One year ago, one little year. 

Oh, sorrowing years to be ! 
Pass swiftly on, I '11 try to bear 

Whate'er ye bring to me ; 
I '11 wait no more the coming train, 

With unavailing tears. 
But look ahead, and look again. 

Come quick, immortal years ! 



" Vou Would not Wish Her Back.'' 129 
"YOU WOULD NOT WISH HER BACK." 

TO DR. H. 

"\T OT wish her back J 

How can I help it ? Everything I lack 
When she is gone : she was my eye, my heart 
My voice, my life, my soul's essential part, 
My other self ; I saw all things through her ; 
Heard through her ear, and if, perchance, there 

were 
Some buds of beauty grew beneath my touch. 
She sowed the seeds and made the colors such 
As blossoms wish for. She has gone away. 
But voiceless, lifeless, soulless, here I stay, 
And deaf and dumb and blind I tread life's track. 
How can I help it, if I wish her back ? 

She cannot come. 

My wish is powerless ; let my lips be dumb. 

Ungrateful lips ! Oh ! why forget to say : 

" I thank thee, Lord, that for so long a way 

She walked beside me ; that a life so sweet. 

Its box of alabaster, at my feet 

Poured out ; that for a little while 

I lived beneath the sunlight of her smile ; 

I am so glad, that, even for an hour. 

Her holy influence held me in its power ; 

I am so glad, and yet, dear Lord ! and yet " 

Ungrateful lips ! oh : why do you forget ? 



130 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 



HANGING THE PICTURES.* 

"T^EAR pictured faces that look out 
^"^ From yonder sacred walls ! 
On those you loved, we cannot doubt 
Your benediction falls. 

Oh, Father Venerable !f we 

Your simple faith recall ; 
Your all-embracing charity 

A lesson for us all. 

Yes, we whose fathers you have blest 

Or joined in lasting bands, 
Who felt upon our foreheads prest, 

Your consecrating hands, 

Can almost see those shut lips move. 

And hear those accents quaint 
Repeat the story of God's love — 

You were indeed a saint. 

Oh, Pastor J of the young fresh heart 

That beat for us awhile, 
The peace that loving doth impart 

Beams from that tender smile. 

* Read by the author at Farmington, Maine, 1893, on the 
presentation of pictures of the former pastors, to the Cong. 
Church, by Mrs. Julia W. Butler. 

f Rev. Isaac Rogers. 

\ Rev. Roland B. Howard. 



' ' Till Death do Party 131 

We seem to hear your tuneful voice 

In message, or in song ; 
We listen, answer, weep, rejoice, 

Our faith and hope are strong. 

We seem to take your friendly hand, 

We hear your questionings, 
We answer, till you understand 

Our joys and sorrowings. 



Glad spirits of our shepherds lost, 

If ye to-night can see 
How we, on mountains tempest-tost. 

Remember, it must be 

Ye will be glad ; then, as we place 
These pictures here, we say : 

Lord, may the influence, like the face, 
Hang over us alway. 



"TILL DEATH DO PART." 

"T^ ILL death do part." 

Say, will they cling, 

These hands that now each other hold ? 
Cling close and firm through everything 

When life is young, when life is old ? 



132 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

Oh ! answer truly. 

Like a prayer 
Comes back the whisper of the heart : 
" I will," floats up the morning air, 
" Till death do part." 



FULFILMENT. 

"T^O you remember, love, when we 
^^^ Were side by side, you said to me 
So often : " Darling, we will rest 
Sometime, and then will see the west. 
We '11 watch the waving wheat and ride 
Together where the space is wide. 
We '11 pick the roses of the south 
Beyond the far Ohio's mouth, 
And then, as in our youth, we '11 stand 
Together on Kentucky's land 
And see old friends who yet remain 
And live the pleasant past again." 

It is fulfilled, as we had planned. 
I rest, I seek the wished-for land ; 
I look upon the prairie's green. 
And watch the birds that fly between 
Myself and you, but cannot say 
" Do you remember it this way ? " 
Into your ear. I only see 
The hills you loved to climb with me. 



Memory s Class. 133 

My hands alone the petals touch 
That you would love to pick so much, 
And all my being yearns anew 
To talk it over, dear, with you. 

Perhaps, how strange if it were so ! 

You think not of the fields below 

But lost in wonder, stand and gaze 

Forgetful of the parted ways. 

Perhaps by tuneful banks you walk 

And talk, or listen to the talk 

Of lost ones found. Ah ! do you know 

We dreamed of this, too, long ago ? 

The joyful resting, glorious scenes, 

The meetings, greetings ? What this means 

I know not, but it will be sweet 

To talk it over whefi we meet. 

I only know that God hath willed 

This dream of ours shall be fulfilled. 



MEMORY'S CLASS. 

/COMPANIONS of the distant days when life 

^-^ had touched its spring. 

Across the years I reach to you as memories back- 
ward swing ; 

I call your names ; stand side by side, and make a 
gray-haired row, 

In that red schoolhouse where we went some forty 
years ago, 



1 34 Songs front the Woods of Maine. 

Speak for yourselves, companions, now, and as of 

old recite ; 
What life's long term has taught each one, reveal to 

us to-night. 
I am the teacher for an hour. Into your eyes I 

look, 
And ask the questions from the leaves of time's 

old spelling-book. 

I ask not for your secret thoughts ; my own are hid 
from you 

(And yet the old friends read our hearts far better 
than the new) ; 

I ask not for confession, dears, of every past mis- 
take ; 

Tell me some bright experience for old acquaint- 
ance' sake. 

Some blessed glimpses of the home and children 
nestled there. 

Of one whose face for all the years has grown to 
you more fair ; 

Of plans perfected, hopes fulfilled, of joys that still 
may be ! 

Companions of the olden days ! will you not give 
to me ? 

As for myself, I have my griefs, and my besetting 

sins ; 
I make great blunders ; all my outs are larger than 

my ins ; 



Memory's Class. 135 

My hope is strong, the path grows bright, and so, 

from day to day, 
I think the Lord doth guide my steps into a better 

way. 

I 've had my doubts, I have them still ; I am of 

self afraid ; 
I am too sensitive ; I 've mourned mistakes I never 

made. 
But life is teaching many things, and here 's my 

lesson now : 
" Don't worry ; God will make things right, and 

He alone knows how." 

The lost and found are mingling here, the old be- 
neath the new ; 

The manhood face, sometimes, and then, the child 
face peeping through ; 

The raven hair, the silver locks, the brown or rosy 
cheek. 

The maiden's smile, the matron's frown, from past 
or present speak. 

You at my side, so small and gray, so happy — or so 
sad, — 

Has life brought any days to you like those your 
childhood had ? 

Have joys been yours ? you bow your head ? Am- 
bitious ? Ah ! but few ! 

And work accomplished ? Little ? Then the foot 
is best for you. 



1 36 Songs from the Woods of Maine. 

And you, my blue-eyed merry mate, so songful and 
so sweet ! 

(Where are the roses that you wore when sitting in 
my seat ?) 

Has disappointment paled your cheek ? And sor- 
row ? Is this why 

We miss, to-night, the starry light that sparkled in 
your eye ? 

And you, my golden-headed lad, who stood above 

the rest. 
And still are rising ! Have you had of life the very 

best ? 
The best you say ? Love ? Joy ? Wealth ? Fame ? 

And do they yet remain ? 
Some things turn out just as they should. Stand 

at the head again. 

And you, my serious, thoughtful child, so ready to 
begin, 

So ready to give help, so mild, who cared not place 
to win, 

So good, so kind, so laughing-eyed, with voice so 
sweet and clear, — 

Tell me, — Alas ! the gap is wide ; she is not stand- 
ing here. 

She is not here ; the space is wide, and many more 

I miss. 
Who, all life's lessons here have learned, and 

changed Heaven's school for this. 



Oh, No! Not Old. 137 

We know not where ; we long to know, but we can 
only say, 

They are not in the gray-haired row who 're stand- 
ing here to-day. 

Oh, black-eyed, buxom, cheerful dame ! the twinkle 

of your smile 
Reveals to me the very name you wore a little 

while. 
Come and recite ! " Call up my boys ! " you answer ; 

bring them here ! 
For life has found its sweetest joys when children's 

steps draw near. 

Class ! Come to order ! Toe the line ! Turn to the 
fiftieth page ; 

Repeat in concert, word by word, the song of mid- 
dle age ; 

Now close the book ; pass up the aisle. Gray 
heads ! ye may depart — 

For memory must keep school awhile, in every 
scholar's heart. 



OH, NO ! NOT OLD. 

TO E. M. W, 



A ND are we old ? 

So nearly is life's little legend told ? 
It seems, dear heart, as if 't were yesterday 
That we were romping round the fields at play ; 



138 Songs frofn the Woods of Maine. 

It seems but yesterday that we could run 
From early morning to the setting sun 
And never weary. Tell me, can it be 
That we are old ? It seems so strange to me. 

Oh, no ! not old ! 

Though nearly threescore years have onward rolled, 

The heart beats warmly as it beat of yore ; 

Earth never was so beautiful before ; 

And we can see it. Love is just as sweet 

As when our mothers kissed us ; — yet 't is meet 

That we should look whence we have come, and say, 

" How many years have touched our heads to-day ?" 

Oh, no ! not old ! 

Hearts may be young and all their freshness hold 
When feet have lost their fleetness — when the eye 
Must look through glasses for the starry sky ; 
Hearts may be young, are young, when we can feel 
Remembered pulses through our being steal ; 
And so, I reach across the years and say, 
It cannot be — we are not old to-day. 

Not old ! not old ! 

Some years of life in labors manifold, 

Some years of preparation, years of quest, 

Of seeking, striving, finding what is best ; 

Some years to learn the things we long to know ; 

Some years to taste love's sweetness here below. 

Before we reach the limit. Shall we then 

Be old, dear heart, at threescore years and ten 1 



Oh, No! Not Old. 139 

Oh, no ! not old ! 

Death is the birth of life to come. Behold 

A mystery : In God's own time we rise 

New-born to Him, who hears His children's cries. 

The years that have been, then, dear heart, shall be 

As if they were not. This doth comfort me : 

The nearer we approach that natal day. 

The younger we may be — we 're young alway ! 



THE END. 



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